


Lullaby for a sadist

by Dapperscript, merrythoughts



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Het, Canon-Typical Violence, Crime Scenes, Dom Hannibal, Dom/sub, Embarrassment/Humiliation Kink, Empathy Disorder, Eventual Romance, Hair-pulling, Hallucinations, Hand Jobs, Hannibal is Hannibal, M/M, Manipulative Hannibal, Masochism, Mental Instability, Murder, Non-Sexual Kink, Phone Sex, Power Imbalance, Praise Kink, Punishment, Roleplay Logs, Sadism, Safewords, Season 1, Sexual Tension, Spanking, Sub Will, Unstable Will, eventual switching
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-11-22 06:10:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 94,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11374197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dapperscript/pseuds/Dapperscript, https://archiveofourown.org/users/merrythoughts/pseuds/merrythoughts
Summary: While he has shut down one avenue of interest, Hannibal is now fascinated by what tendrils of instability remain wrapped around Will, waiting to strike and drag him into the darkness. What symptoms were caused by the inflammation and what was simply Will? They will find out together - a journey for the both of them to embark on.[S1 divergence. Hannibal tells Will of the encephalitis, has his trust and then the fun begins...]





	1. Intimate

**Author's Note:**

> This literally started with us wanting to switch who we write and I kid you not, we tried to plot out some 'platonic soulmate' slowburn LOL but apparently we have no control over ourselves. 
> 
> Featuring Merry writing Hannibal the curious sadistic cannibal and Dapperscript writing poor baby Willagotchi who needs lots of help. ♥
> 
> Also, this is dedicated to all those other S1 fics that are hot as hell and involve BDSM'y elements that we've thoroughly enjoyed. We're joining you. We're not ashamed.
> 
> Hope you like! We promise a happy ending and character/relationship growth for these two. The dynamic is messed up for a while, but not forevaaaa °˖✧◝(⁰▿⁰)◜✧˖°

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I know this is difficult for you. It's not in your nature to be so compliant, but you're doing very well Will, just as I asked. I'm pleased," Hannibal murmurs. Reassurance (or praise) is likely vital in this activity. He rubs along Will's hairline before his fingers brush through Will's hair with only the slightest of drags - a hint at what _could_ happen next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry's [tumblr](http://merrythought.tumblr.com) | Dapperscript's [tumblr](http://reallymisscoffee.tumblr.com/)

Despite Will being indisposed at the hospital - for no one had yet to tell Hannibal otherwise - Hannibal Lecter lingers at his office. His standing appointment with Will is nearing and he would feel slightly remiss were he not available. Stability is paramount to the unstable, after all. On his desk, a glass of wine is untouched, as well as an unread journal article on his tablet. These things normally interest him, for if one had the time or desire to read, having a good glass of wine as an accompaniment is rather nice.

Instead of sipping and enjoying the vintage red or reading over the article, his thoughts linger on the conversation from little over a week ago. He had smelled what he termed a 'fevered sweetness' on Will for some time, but he remained silent, curious as ever to see just what would unfold before him. He suspected encephalitis as the culprit and initially, he planned on seeing it run its course for a bit longer, for interests sake only... But something changed, something shifted slightly within and instead of letting Will flounder (safely within his reach, of course) Hannibal decided to throw him the rope and pull him in. (This surprised him being that it was a whim, but who was he to deny giving into the occasional whim when they arose?) He suggested seeing a neurologist and following the standard MRI, Will had been diagnosed and swift treatment followed. Hannibal visited him once in the hospital, but other than that, they have not been in contact.

While he has shut down one avenue of interest, Hannibal is now fascinated by what tendrils of instability remain wrapped around Will, waiting to strike and drag him into the darkness. What symptoms were caused by the inflammation and what was simply Will? They will find out together - a journey for the both of them to embark on.

A sudden knock from the waiting room interrupts Hannibal from his musing and he rises on instinct. He glances at his suit jacket that's on the back of his chair, but decides to forgo it. Smooth strides take him to the door. Unlocking it, he pulls the door open and there, in his waiting room, is one Will Graham. Will looks pale, sickly, obviously still recovering, it will take time for the antibiotics and steroids to run their course. Hannibal can't help but allow a courteous smile to adorn his face. He feels pleased despite knowing Will most likely _shouldn't_ be here.

"While it is nice to see your dedication in keeping our appointment, it's hardly expected given your condition," he says - although not unkindly. "But as you are here, you might as well come in and, at the very least, take a seat and rest some." Hannibal steps aside, a hand gesturing into the low-lit office. It would appear their journey begins tonight. He has no problems with that. If anything, Hannibal is keen.

* * *

Will is exhausted when he arrives at Hannibal's office that evening. The breath of cold air that hits him as he crosses from the private parking lot to the building feels like heaven, but then, everything feels like heaven following hospital stays. Will hates hospitals. So many people, bright lights, emotions. So many doctors 'kindly' requesting he meet their eyes so they can check his response to stimulus. He _knows_ too much even now - knows who hates their jobs and who doesn't give a shit, knows which doctors he'd tell people to avoid if he had friends to tell. He feels worn thin, a shed snakeskin, just a shade of who he'd been, but Sutcliffe _assured_ him that the feeling would pass, that he'd make a full recovery. He'd said it in the tone of a man who really kind of hoped he _wouldn't_ but didn't want him to know. Will doesn't like Sutcliffe.

The walk to Hannibal's office is the first normal thing that's happened to him in what feels like decades. Everything is sore. He feels washed out and stressed and like he hasn't slept in fucking weeks, but there's still strength behind his knock as Will lifts a hand to his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. He checks his watch idly and resists the urge to repeat his mantra. He knows who he is. He knows what time it is. He knows where he is. Whether or not he knows _what_ he is is another matter altogether, but that's why he's here. His brain may be swollen and he may need decades of sleep, but Hannibal is a constant. Hannibal probably saved his fucking life. Will isn't about to forget that.

When the door opens, Will is only mildly taken aback by how casual Hannibal looks (and that says a lot, that he thinks a vest, slacks, tie, and dress shirt is _casual_ now). If Hannibal is surprised to see him, he masks it well. Will manages a weary thing that feels vaguely like a smile but also kind of like a muscle spasm to pass his face. It doesn't last long, fading to exhaustion soon after.

"Fuck my condition," Will mutters, rubbing a pale hand over a paler face. He still steps inside when bidden. "I've had enough of the inside of hospitals to last me a lifetime. You couldn't _pay_ me to..."

Will trails off, darts a tired look at Hannibal, and the tight line of his shoulders eases. He walks to the chair set out for him, tosses his messenger bag on the floor (it rattles with the sound of pills) and sits down gracelessly, all splayed limbs in denim and checked plaid, with enough fevered heat to go around.

"Sorry," he sighs. "It's been a long week. Thank you."

* * *

Will curses - a mumbled out 'fuck' - and Hannibal inwardly flinches at the vulgar language. Were it anyone else... And that's the conundrum that Hannibal finds himself facing all too often since Will Graham entered his life. Will is brusque (rude) and Hannibal tolerates it, perhaps even coming to find himself somewhere nearing the term 'endeared'. This _should_ bother him more, and yet he finds himself curious as to how else Will can possibly affect him. (Hannibal would never admit it to himself or another that perhaps he's grown just a little complacent in his life, a little bored being the master of his own domain...)

He closes the door once Will wearily makes his way inside, taking care to lock it lest he be interrupted by someone like Jack Crawford. Hannibal follows him, taking his customary seat across from Will with an expression of understanding.

"You needn't apologize, exasperation is a perfectly understandable state to find yourself in after such an ordeal." Hannibal crosses his legs, his hands coming to rest on his lap as he takes in the tired, but still achingly familiar form of Will - he's lost weight, of course, but this is something Hannibal can possibly help out with.

"As pleased as I am to see you, I'm curious as to why you thought it was imperative to come. Surely spending an evening with your dogs would be more comforting."

* * *

"Darren, the-- my neighbor's kid, he's watching the dogs. Alana stopped by and told me." And hadn't _that_ been a pleasant conversation. Two grown adults filled with a tense silence, Will focusing all his attention on regulating his breathing and keeping his heart from speeding up with anxiety. He'd been hooked up to a monitor and Alana had kept _looking_ whenever she said something particularly distressing. It had been a long hour of Will breathing slowly and then getting barked at by the nurses when his blood oxygen levels decreased. Both he and Alana had avoided the obvious and she'd been gracious and kind enough not to make him feel hunted, but the word _unstable_ had practically been painted all across Will's skin. He'd been glad when she'd finally gone.

Will rubs slowly at his face again and is acutely aware of the fact that he's not trimmed his beard in a week. While he's aware he has to look like shit - all pale and sallow with grocery bags of exhaustion under his eyes - Hannibal's too polite to mention it. Will's relieved. If _one_ more person comments on something about how he's 'looking today' he's going to snap.

"I couldn't spend another night in the hospital. Jack would have covered the cost, but..." Will shakes his head, weary, and shifts, slowly drawing himself together. He can't emulate Hannibal's posture yet, but he can at least try not to look so defeated. "I didn't _want_ to stay. Sut-- Doctor Sutcliffe unhooked me from the machine the other day; I didn't spontaneously burst into flame. He seemed satisfied. I told him I had an appointment I wanted to get to, told him it was with _you_ and..." Will wearily spread his arms.

"Here I am. Technically released into your care. You might get a call later. I was... glad to be out of there." Meaning he'd been rude. He'd snapped at Sutcliffe more than once.

* * *

Calmly, Hannibal watches Will, observing how exhaustion - both physical and mental - cling to Will like he imagines Will's undershirts do after being soaked through with nightmare sweat. Undoubtedly any length of stay would be too long for Will to endure, hospital staff constantly poking and prodding at the already prickly Will. The mention of Alana is notable and while it could be amusing to question Will on that particular visit, Hannibal ultimately decides not to, at least not now. Naturally, he has no romantic or sexual interest in Will, but he _is_ interested in how Will connects - or fails to connect - with others. Kissing Alana Bloom had caused Will such an upheaval that the man had seen fit to drive all the way to Hannibal's residence. Interpersonal relationships didn't come easy for Will and Hannibal enjoys the thought of inquiring into that unease and sifting through it. But not tonight.

Of course Will tries to gather himself up, to present a more united front, and Hannibal has to silently applaud his efforts, although they're not needed. He will take Will Graham in any fashion - from twitchy and irate, pacing his office to the more sullen and withdrawn Will Graham who fires off flippant comments with not a care in the world. Will is a spectacle to observe, always gifting Hannibal some new little piece of information to file away and think on later.

"I see," Hannibal says after Will's long-winded explanation comes to a close. "Although, I would perhaps offer another possibility for you to consider." Hannibal inclines his head slightly - graciously.

"Our standing appointment, our time together, both here and outside of my office, perhaps offers you some much needed and appreciated stability."

* * *

Though he tries to mask it, the word 'stability' makes Will flinch. It's hardly more than a slight twitch of a cheek, something subtle and nonverbal, but he doubts Hannibal's missed it. Hannibal doesn't miss much of anything. He's patient and willing to sit and listen to Will for hours that he's not even getting paid for. Despite the exhaustion carved into every part of him, his immune system weak from steroids and antibiotics and the backs of his hands and bend of both elbows bruised with the remnants of IVs, he feels twitchy and restless. He's been holed up in a hospital bed for a week, around people he doesn't like, dealing with sympathetic looks from people he knows and nervous ones from people he doesn't. He doesn't _feel_ stable. Hannibal is right.

"Yeah, maybe," is Will's instinctive answer. He sounds as stressed as he does exhausted. It's been a _really_ long week. "I just wanted _out_. I... don't do well in hospitals." Understatement of the year. Will works his jaw to ease some of the tension in it and tries to tell himself he's too exhausted to pace. It's better here. He'd been a wreck while driving, but Hannibal's office is familiar, almost comforting. ' _Stable_ ,' Will reminds himself, and his jaw tightens again.

* * *

Yes, Hannibal's eyes catch the minute reaction the word 'stability' provokes. It's not his intention to agitate Will - or at least it's not his priority - but Hannibal Lecter is a man that likes to draw out reactions from those around him, to wield words in such a way that the recipients of his attention have no choice _but_ to bloom under his penetrating gaze. Will is no exception to this. Will doesn't want to be seen or considered unstable, because that would mean Jack was right - that Will is a fragile teacup. Hannibal knows that Will _is_ unstable and yet he wishes Will to remain pieced together, brittle as he may be. There's a particular beauty in viewing someone on the precipice of fracturing, of the effort required to persevere despite it all. (Hannibal suspects Will is a fighter - a survivor, like himself.)

Will fights now, to relax his jaw and Hannibal takes in the display. Will finishes speaking and Hannibal is in no hurry to reply. His patience is rewarded with Will’s jaw clenching yet again. Curious. Always curious. He wishes to be privy to the inner workings of Will's mind, to know of the thought that sparked behind those fatigued, but guarded eyes. Therapy - no, conversations with Will - must be handled delicately. With tact.

"And now you're out and you find yourself here," Hannibal says simply. "I imagine that a diagnosis - having answers - brings you some relief, though."

* * *

Agitation thrums like a second pulse under Will's skin and makes his chest feel tight, makes his skin - slightly looser with weight loss over the last week - feel just as uncomfortably snug. There's a mild twitch, an impulse to shake off the tension, to claw away the prickling sensation that pity always leaves him with. He can feel something building, something that's been building since the first nurse touched him, and now that the environment is safe, it's threatening to claw its way out. But all it takes is Hannibal's voice - a sudden calm reminder that _Hannibal_ doesn't pity him - for the unstable foundation under his feet to solidify enough so that he doesn't keep trying to regain his balance.

Instead Will's shoulders sag almost immediately like Hannibal has effortlessly cut the only strings holding him up.

"I--... yes," Will says, and there's an odd mix of relief and resignation that borders on shame in his voice. "It does. I... I never properly thanked you for that. For... catching it in time. If you hadn't..." Will trails off. The thought doesn't bear thinking about. He doesn't want to know _how_ crazy he'd have become. Would he have hurt someone? Hurt himself? Would he have lost himself permanently? It's a terrifying thought that makes him slow his breathing instinctively. He remembers the heart monitor and how he'd made an exercise out of slowing his pulse with Sutcliffe around.

* * *

Hannibal's words have an interesting effect on Will, seeming to deflate the younger man some and causing Will to slump in the chair slightly. However, the picture displayed illustrates more of a complex defeat than relaxation. Allowing Will a small reprieve from his observation, Hannibal glances down at his hands which are still folded calmly in his lap. (Would Hannibal do this for any other patient or friend? Likely not, but Will pulls allowances out of him like blood from a stone. Perhaps reluctant, against his nature, but impossible to resist.)

"Gratitude isn't necessary, Will, but you're most welcome," Hannibal says dismissively, glancing back up at the disheveled man.

"I wish you healthy and now we know that whatever remains is inherently _yours_ ," Hannibal adds. This is an avenue that Will likely doesn't want to visit, but Hannibal will not gloss over it for Will. Handling Will takes skill and care, yes. He must be patient with Will, he will offer unyielding stability, an ear to listen and a voice to reframe and challenge assumptions, but he shall not allow his presence to be a refuge from life's harsh realities. Hannibal suspects that not all of Will's instability was brought on by the encephalitis. Only the passage of time would reveal the true scope of the many facets of Will Graham, and Hannibal will, for as long as it's feasible, remain by his side.

* * *

Regardless of his reluctance, Will appreciates Hannibal's silence. It's an extra allowance that only Hannibal affords him. Jack sees Will cracking and pushes him harder, either to break him sooner or scare him into holding it together. Alana's always been careful, so over-careful that the it feels suffocating and cloying and like he needs to break free of it. Hannibal is the only one willing to detach completely. He says his piece and then looks away, giving Will time to piece himself back together. Like always, Will appreciates it. It's... respectful. _Hannibal_ is respectful.

But Hannibal isn't a man to pull his punches either. Will's only just managed to start stitching up gaping mental wounds from the last few days when Hannibal's voice cuts through it all again. Will tenses immediately and looks at him, at the calm, passive expression. Hannibal may be calm but Will isn't, and the implication settles heavily on his chest, making it difficult to swallow. He closes his eyes on a sigh and defeat is etched into every part of his posture as he lowers his head enough to rub hard at his eyes. Will takes silent comfort in the familiar starbursts in the darkness. They're predictable. Grounding.

"Do we have to do this _now?_ " He asks, but even as the words leave his lips, he knows how childish they sound. He'd call them petulant were it not for the weight in each one, like cement weighing him down. The worst part is that Hannibal is just doing his job. He's not trying to push, or to be cruel. _Will_ had come to _him_.

"I'm tired, Hannibal."

* * *

Hannibal's words, predictably, cause Will to bristle. He can see Will's muscles tense, body instinctively reacting to the threat - to what Hannibal is not so subtly implying. It's delightful to both instigate and observe Will's discomfort - to see eyelids close in defeat, to hear the soft sigh and to watch Will rub at his face as if his problems were nothing but vestiges of sleep to be cleared away. Oh, Will, if only. No, unlike the mucus, skin cells, oils and other possible debris that can accumulate in the corner of one's eye after sleeping, darkness and anguish are not so easily swept away. Hannibal knows this all too well. 

"Of course we needn't delve into such topics now," Hannibal easily replies, courteous as ever. Patience. Tact. Skill. "It's understandable you're tired. You have been through quite the traumatic experience, both physically and mentally. Sickness has a way of draining one even after the healing regiment has begun."

He then considers just _how_ tense Will appears. It's a risk, but it's one that he believes is calculated...

"Would you allow me to offer you a massage? Just your neck and shoulders. You would remain seated and of course fully clothed. I believe this would help you relax some."

* * *

The last few weeks have been a roller coaster of stress, from losing _hours_ out of his day and showing up at Hannibal's office, to being told that there was no rhyme or reason his brain had just suddenly started to fuck itself. Will remembers Sutcliffe's words. ("Typically a tumor is the leading cause of Anti-nmdar Encephalitis, but without a tumor, a patient is more likely to suffer a relapse down the road. We didn't find anything. No tumor. It's something you need to watch for in the future but thanks to Doctor Lecter, we were able to catch it in time.") His only lingering consolation is that... whatever Hannibal is suggesting, whatever is _inherently his_ , will likely not come equipped with a fever. Even if it doesn't, he'll be fine around Hannibal because apparently Hannibal can _smell_ that kind of thing.

It doesn't make the knowledge of a possible relapse easier, and maybe that registers on his face, because instead of pressing the issue, Hannibal simply studies Will and sets the topic aside. There are no words for Will's relief.

"Thank you," he mumbles anyway, and rubs hard at his face, like he could potentially scrub away all the _shit_ that's remaining in the back of his mind. He doesn't want to think about what's his and not due to the illness. He doesn't want to admit that while the fever has gone down, other things haven't. Hallucinations and nightmares are still present. He isn't going to tell Hannibal.

But that apparently doesn't matter, because Hannibal doesn't ask him to. Instead, Hannibal suggests something _else_ and Will can't hide the perplexed surprise behind his eyes that immediately wars with uncertainty. He's had a lot of people touch him lately and he's not sure how much more he can handle. Hannibal's his friend, though. Hannibal's not pushing, and Will trusts Hannibal a lot more than he trusts Sutcliffe. Plus, there's no denying that he's so tense he can't stand up straight. Hospital beds aren't designed for comfort. Will swallows.

"That doesn't sound like it'd be something in your wheelhouse," he says, but already he's shifting, sitting up a little straighter. "But if you know how... I mean. I guess, yeah. Sure."

* * *

While Hannibal hadn't publicly inserted himself into Will's medical dealings (other than pointing him in the right direction), Donald Sutcliffe had kept Hannibal Lecter in the know about Will's condition from behind the scenes. Late night phone calls discussing test results and progress had been shared. Of course that was an abuse of doctor-patient confidentiality, but the neurologist had owed him a favor and Hannibal had sought to cash in on it. Hannibal is not about to let Will know all this, however and he doubts very much that Will wants to keep him in the loop regarding such things. The less Hannibal has to pry, the better. For Will's sake, too.

Even if Will ends up declining the offer, the look of shock alone is worth it. Will Graham is a touch starved creature and that's what Hannibal is counting on. Will is twitchy and guarded, yet he's allowed Hannibal to get away with casual, comforting touches - tactile reassurances to ground Will or to show support. The offer of a massage is taking it one step further, completely unorthodox and unprofessional if he was in fact Will's therapist, but as they're just having conversations...

Hannibal rises smoothly. "Massage, while not my area of expertise, is a skill I've studied and practiced. I may prove myself interesting yet. Or at least helpful." A flicker of a smile. A joke, sort of, or at least a show of self-deprecation, as that's what Will is fond of for himself. He moves slowly enough as to not startle Will, coming around to the back and first placing his hands firmly on the seated man's shoulders.

"Try to relax. Close your eyes if your surroundings are distracting to you." That's all the instruction he gives as strong hands begin to work at the tension held in those shoulders. "If you wish me to talk, you need only let me know."

* * *

"Of course it is," Will mutters under his breath. Why _wouldn't_ Hannibal have innumerable skills beyond his chosen profession? He's already skilled. His sense of smell is astronomical, he'd once practiced surgery, and he can cook better than any chef Will's ever seen (though the last one isn't saying much). Why wouldn't massage have been a skill he'd studied too? Despite his musings, he still manages something akin to a smile, weary as it is, when Hannibal rises. Will notes how slowly he moves and wonders offhandedly just how close to breaking he really looks. Hannibal's never really been abrupt with him, but he walks like Will might bolt for the door at any moment.

Upon closer reflection, maybe he's not so wrong. Will's tense and restless enough that he's nearly gotten to his feet to pace multiple times. Trust Hannibal to notice.

He doesn't miss what Hannibal says - the line about being interesting - and Will's smile becomes marginally more genuine for a moment before the touch of Hannibal's hands to his shoulders knocks it from his lips. Hannibal's touch is colder than normal (he's still feverish then) but the familiar weight is grounding. Never has it fallen on him with such intent before, but Will tries to do as he'd been told anyway. He relaxes and, at Hannibal's instructions, he closes his eyes. It makes him more aware of Hannibal's touch and the first pointed press has him wincing at the reminder that this isn't going to be pleasant initially. His muscles are too tense, too sore and aching.

"I want you to talk," Will decides after Hannibal's hands draw a soft hiss from between his teeth that sounds too loud in the silence. "Do you do this for all of your patients, or am I just special?" Will adds sardonically.

* * *

While he's not a fragile little teacup, Will does, at times, remind Hannibal of a deer. Skittish, desperately seeking safety, but ready to dash at a moment's notice. Will's equivalent of dashing away is him digging his heels in, shutting down or opening his mouth and, to Hannibal's dismay but sometimes amusement, being rude. So, yes, he will be gentle with Will, he will approach slowly and he will stamp down his desire to push and incite. For now, at least.

Seeing how Will has taken to the shows of physical contact, it seems only logical to offer a massage to the battle worn man. Encephalitis aside, Will has been through a lot, most of it good Jack's fault, but some of it due to Hannibal's meddling, too. Hannibal has no qualms providing support in this manner if it has Will eventually relaxing and their friendship deepening, bonds strengthening. His hands work, not gentle for that would be of no use.

"No, you and I both know that this would be considered highly unprofessional for a therapist to be so intimate with one of their patients," Hannibal answers simply enough. He wonders if his word choice will ruffle Will. _Intimate_...

"I may be attempting to offer you therapy, but I think of you as a friend first and foremost."

* * *

_Intimate_. The word is like a bucket of cold water poured over Will's head. His eyes snap open and he feels himself tense again just as Hannibal's hands shift and tighten, pressing in hard enough to make him jerk with a bitten-off curse. He quickly makes himself relax again, properly chastised without Hannibal so much as saying a fucking word, but the steady throb to Will's shoulders is punishment enough. He grimaces deeply but keeps his eyes open, because he doesn't know what to do with a word like _intimate_. It's not something people just throw around at random, and Hannibal is too precise to mean anything else. The difficulty is that intimacy comes in many forms, and he doesn't know which one Hannibal had meant. Already Will can feel a telltale headache creeping in.

"Intimate, huh?" Will jokes dryly, because when something unsettles him, shining a bright light on it and keeping it under a watchful eye is safe. His temptation is also to ignore it entirely but then Hannibal will know it bothers him. He's about to say something else, make some vague allusion to buying him dinner, or whether he should be concerned, but Hannibal follows up his statement with one of friendship and some of the awkward tension leaves his body. Hannibal's fingers press in against knots against his shoulders and Will winces, subconsciously shying away from the touch.

"Shit. Yeah, I know. I'm--sorry. I'm not the best company. I've had people manhandling me for a week. You're the first person who's _asked_ before touching me."

* * *

Of course there is a noticeable reaction from the word _intimate_. Hannibal would expect nothing less from a man like Will Graham who struggles with interpersonal relationships. Understandably so, given the unique empathy disorder and the spectrum of possibilities yet undiagnosed. Words are weapons and Hannibal is quite adept at wielding them. He doesn't always use them to wound, no, because sometimes simply the _threat_ of the blade is enough... But to run his scalpel lightly over Will, to barely break the skin and have blood bubble up, delicate like morning dew. To have him be willing and compliant, trusting... (By now the want has become a steady thrum, persistent, but it's a desire he can temper, for Hannibal is nothing but a master over himself - or so he believes.)

Hannibal's hands are sure and confident as they work on the tension found in Will's shoulders. It matters not that Will is rigid and somewhat fighting him by trying to pull away because Will isn't actually putting a stop to it. "You needn't apologize, Will," Hannibal says calmly.

"It's difficult for you to relax, is it not? So much going on in that head of yours, like mice skittering around after dark. No doubt, as of late, you have been overloaded with many pairs of eyes to risk looking into and too many forceful hands." Hannibal hums.

"Permission is important, it demonstrates respect. Would you prefer that I always ask before I touch you, or may I be exempt? You've seemed to handle my contact well in the past..."

* * *

Will isn't putting a stop to this because he honestly doesn't mind it. He hasn't given thought to the _why_ , just to the fact that it's different with Hannibal. Sutcliffe had taken his wrist to check his pulse, had shoved instruments into his ears to check his temperature, had routinely drawn blood, and had taken his chin lightly to manhandle him (Will's perception anyway) into looking as close to his eyes as Will had dared. He'd been doing his job, but Will had felt flayed and stripped. Even now the thought makes him want to fidget and sparks a low note of anxiety in his chest that Hannibal's hands locate, settle upon, and start trying to work out.

It isn't a comfortable massage, but Will knows that's not Hannibal's fault. He's got knots on top of knots and tension is just his life. He downs aspirin and whiskey and only relaxes around his dogs. That he can move is a miracle. So Hannibal's hands do hurt, pressing in uncomfortably but Will merely winces and takes it, drawing in a slow deep breath and holding it before letting it out. Hannibal isn't wrong, and that Hannibal can just seemingly look into his mind and piece together the complicated jumble of his thoughts into something that has structure and mass is a relief. Even so, when Hannibal continues to speak about _respect_ , Will stills. Again, Hannibal isn't wrong, only this time it feels different. Will frowns and almost looks back over his shoulder but catches himself before he moves his neck more than a few degrees. He turns his attention back ahead.

"I... it's different. With you. You don't _assume_." Will makes a vague gesture with one hand. "I didn't mean to imply that you--... it's fine." He isn't going to talk himself into a corner. His thoughts are too prone to spiraling as it is. "You're exempt. I'm just-- I'm a fucking pincushion and the medication makes me feel like shit. It's not you."

* * *

Hannibal could try and take in Will in his state of distress - it _is_ tempting - but he's already close to Will; he mustn't be greedy. Patience. Through the cheaply made plaid shirt, Hannibal can feel the heat of Will's skin, feel the tense muscles underneath and can't help but let his mind wonder at the possibility of this becoming more of a regular thing between them. Will smells of lingering sickness, of a harsh sterile environment refusing to let him go yet. He's lacking his usual smell of rustic earthiness and dogs. (Frankly, Hannibal prefers these smells, even if it is often accompanied with atrocious aftershave.)

"I thought it would be prudent to check. If ever it changes, do inform me, please," Hannibal replies, completely at ease with the conversation. He glances down at his hands, feeling the pleasant strain from repetitive motions and the force he's using. He doesn't ease up or think to stop, committed to the task at hand.

"And you really needn't apologize for being cagey, Will. It's quite understandable given what you've been through. I assure you, I can take it." Hannibal's hands come behind Will's collar, there's ample room as Will hadn't buttoned his shirt the entire way. They have direct skin on skin contact as Hannibal squeezes Will's neck gently.

"You won't push me away." His hands resume the massage. Hannibal tries to not dwell on the knowledge that it would be so very easy to put Will out of his misery and to squeeze...

* * *

"Were you born this patient?" Will asks, sounding almost incredulous. Almost, because despite the direct contact to his neck from Hannibal's hands, the deep, slow press of his fingers is starting to help. Will's head tips forward, his chin pointing down towards his chest and he finally allows his eyes to slide closed. While it takes him awhile, he does strive to relax. The press into aching muscles doesn't really feel good immediately but he can tell it's helping. It hurts, but it's a good, healing hurt, like putting pressure on a gash or drinking something hot and salty with a sore throat.

"I'll- I'll tell you if something changes. But like I said. No one can be this patient. I'm pretty sure Sutcliffe wanted to strangle me earlier." Yet he feels safe with Hannibal's hands at his neck. The irony is not lost on Will as he pushes himself to sit a little straighter. His skin is hot to the touch and probably clammy and gross, but Hannibal doesn't seem to mind. It doesn't stop Will from shoving down the somewhat hysterical urge to apologize for not showering before coming here. He'd not thought beyond his desire to get the fuck out of the hospital, and then he'd just thought of the day of the week and the time and... here he is. Thankfully Will remembers the trip this time. No blackout.

"I don't know if you've noticed," Will adds dryly, "but I'm not exactly a model patient."

* * *

Hannibal Lecter does not have an infinite reserve of patience. In his line of work (both official and off the record) it's imperative he tune out rudeness and banality, lest a patient or acquaintance catch his eye and up _on_ his dinner table. Those he brushes elbows with - Baltimore's high society, colleagues, 'friends'- often annoy him, but they get their own just rewards when invited to his table. (There's something incredibly satisfying about watching a pig eat another pig, after all.) The unlucky few that _do_ cross him, that do manage to get underneath Hannibal's skin - winding up him up and bringing a particular curl to his lip - find that he can be a very unforgiving man.

"Dr. Sutcliffe isn't known for his bedside manner," Hannibal comments dismissively. "He's an excellent doctor, but ultimately an opportunist as his interests lie in becoming published." While he can see the intrigue in wanting to study the effects of the encephalitis on Will's unique mind, the end hardly justified the means. (Will was an abysmal conversationalist when seizing and losing time.)

"Then it is a good thing you're not technically my patient," Hannibal says, a wry note in his tone. "No need to worry about model behavior and my expectations. Come as you are. Be yourself. I much prefer you that way."

* * *

The snort Will lets out is in no way polite. It's filled with derision that he makes no move to mask. Donald Sutcliffe is not his person of the year even if he'd managed to stop Will's antibodies from eating his brain.

"No shit," Will mutters back. "There's a part of him that wants to study me. I can feel it every time he looks at me. His gaze is... sticky," Will decides, though not even he looks pleased with his word of choice. It'll do. He's too exhausted to try and find something less common, and Hannibal apparently wants him to be himself.

Well, Will's about as _himself_ as he's capable of being right now. His head is starting to feel clear due to the medications but he's had a shit week (last few weeks if he's being honest) and the cure is almost worse than the illness. He's been sick from the medication, and words like 'auto-immune' and 'infusion' had practically jumped from Sutcliffe's mouth like locusts, happily chirping and ignorant of the way Will had wished so badly to recoil. He'd merely shut down.

He's spent a lot of time in his own head these past few days, so many that peeking out of it here, with Hannibal, feels almost blinding by comparison. Will swallows and takes a slow breath, another attempt to calm himself.

"I want to call bullshit," Will says, with a disparaging grin. "but you keep humoring me every time I show up, so I guess there's some truth to it."

* * *

Hannibal is, naturally, aware of Sutcliffe's propensities to perhaps not mend and heal certain patients as quickly as he could. They're similar in this light, both willing to push the ethical boundaries if they see value in it. Or if it could prove to be interesting. This is why Hannibal had insisted on receiving copies of Will's medical file and not so subtly hinting to the neurologist that he'd be keeping a rather close eye on Will's recovery to ensure it stayed on course. Hannibal isn't expecting Sutcliffe to be a fool in this; Sutcliffe knows better. So, under Hannibal's watchful eye, Will shall recover and their conversations and companionship can continue unhindered by illness.

"I'm sure you do, it's in your nature to be distrusting," Hannibal asserts, no judgment present in his voice. One hand moves higher, into the curly strands at the nape of Will's neck and he scratches lightly, soothingly.

"Like the father of the prodigal son, I shall always welcome you, Will." His other hand continues massaging, albeit with less force. He scratches at Will's head with a certain amount of fondness, like he imagines Will does with his pack of dogs. Perhaps Will could be kept like a pet. Hannibal would care for him, manage him, and in turn, Will would provide him with companionship.

* * *

"Really." Will's voice is flat, or tries to be. It fails in a sense, softer, because the scratch of Hannibal's nails through his hair is surprisingly soothing. Will doesn't really think this is part of a normal massage but it's got _Hannibal_ written all over it. Hannibal, who is always gracious and forthcoming, who caters to Will's attitudes and moods without complaint, and who helps guide him through the rougher facets of his personality without babying him.

"It's been awhile since I read that parable, but if I remember right, the father treated the son as if he'd returned from the dead. Hiked his robes and ran to him, and killed the fattest calf in celebration."

Will's lips twist a little in a wry sort of amusement at the very notion. He can't imagine Hannibal running, much less killing his own food. An 'ethical butcher', he always says, and Will believes him. Again, it's such a Hannibal thing, and Will feels himself slowly relaxing against the chair. The tight, sharp stabs of pain that radiate dull aches through his neck and shoulder are less now, faded to something gentler and easier to handle. It might be simple but Will enjoys the touch, enjoys the scratch against his scalp, enjoys not being in the _fucking hospital_.

"I suppose in a way I did come back from the dead," he adds, "thanks to you. You don't wear robes, but the calf is a possibility."

* * *

"Yes, a calf is a possibility, isn't it?" Hannibal agrees, endeared by Will playing along and making the connection. His trimmed nails scratch lightly at Will's scalp in circular motions. Gradually, he lets his fingers work higher up, further from Will's neck and further from that of a typical massage. Hannibal cares not. If it brings Will comfort (and it does, he can see Will visibly relax, tension dissipating from his muscles), he will gladly throw himself into this somewhat mundane task.

"Would you let me to bring you dinner tomorrow? It wouldn't be anywhere near the level of celebration as found in the parable, but I'm sure I can manage something far tastier than what you've been putting into your body this past week." (And truthfully, longer that that as Hannibal has perused Will's kitchen.) He knows just the right recipe too. His take on 'Beef' Daube. Nothing fancy, but filled with nourishment and likely comforting to Will in its simplicity.

"I imagine our very own Lazarus will need some time to fetch groceries anyhow."

* * *

The light, circular scratch of Hannibal's nails through his hair speaks of a greater intimacy (Will shies away from the word) than before, but there's something rhythmic and predictable and relaxing in the touch. This isn't so much a massage anymore. Or, if it is, it's aimed somewhere different. Will's hyper-aware of the fact he's not managed to shower for over a day, and washing his hair at the hospital had been all but impossible when he'd been hooked up to the IVs, shaking apart at whatever medication had been targeting his brain. But if Hannibal minds the smell or the texture, he doesn't say so. He doesn't hesitate. Bit by bit under Hannibal's hands, Will allows himself to slowly relax.

The tension doesn't really _leave_ him, but it consents to lie dormant under the touch. The past week - the past few weeks - rush to catch up to him and Will feels the exhaustion bleed deeper into his bones, but the sensation is more comfortable than it had been upon arriving at Hannibal's office. He makes a small sound - a vague hum that sounds cracked and brittle and reminds Will that he's not had much to drink over the past few days - and he finally permits himself to relax back against the chair. He’s consenting to allowing Hannibal this endeavor.

"I can't ask you to drive all the way out to Wolf Trap just to bring me dinner," Will protests weakly, but the thought isn't wholly unpleasant. It's still Hannibal. "You've got patients and it's an hours drive."

* * *

Noting Will's obvious enjoyment of the head scratching, Hannibal gives up all pretenses of a massage and lets his other hand join in. He continues to scratch lightly, letting his fingertips roam over the entirety of Will's head now. In a way, this is soothing for him, too. (Although, he doesn't want to think on that realization too deeply.)

"You're not asking me. I'm offering," Hannibal points out. He knows he'll win, but he'll go through the motions and address each of Will's concerns anyway. "I do have patients, yes, but I make my own schedule and tomorrow is a half-day. I would have ample time to prepare a meal and make the drive." Even if it wasn't a half-day, Hannibal would ensure that it became one. Working for oneself had its own perks, after all.

While Will's hair is oily and unkempt, it's hardly important and doesn't deter Hannibal in the least. Curious, he grips and tugs gently at the unruly hair, not enough to hurt, but enough to be felt and introduce a different tactile sensation.

"Patient as I may be, I assure you I'm more stubborn than you. Please allow me to do this for you, Will." His grip relaxes.

* * *

They've left behind all semblance of massaging now and there's a part of Will that wants to revert to what he can at least write off as making sense, but an even larger part doesn't care. It's been a long week and while this touch is _new_ and generally speaking, 'new' rarely means 'good' in his life, it's still Hannibal. Hannibal, who's been his only real port in the storm. Hannibal, who's been the buffer between Will and Jack whenever Will has asked him to be. Hannibal, who's taken Abigail under his wing and keeps giving Will instruction on how and when to approach her so as not to terrify her away. Will _is_ the man who killed her father after all. Will's positive he'd not have even consented to a massage from anyone else, but Hannibal... Hannibal probably saved his life. Hannibal's fingers in his hair are not unwelcome.

When Hannibal's grip tightens, a small breath of a sound escapes Will's throat. A flicker of something that could both be contentment and a wince passes his face but it's gone the next moment. Given the way he leans into it, easing pressure against his scalp but still chasing it subconsciously, he doesn't dislike the feeling. Will groans softly under his breath, a small, tired sound, and reaches up with both hands to sluggishly rub his face.

"I don't know what you're doing, but it feels nice," he murmurs. "Is there any point in arguing with you? Or would you just show up on my porch anyway?" Will wonders, with a flicker of a barely-there smile. "Yeah, all right. I'm not _that_ selfless. I'd like that."

* * *

Hannibal has done this before with lovers he's taken in the past. He's taken the time to run his fingers through thick hair, pulling gently - stimulating hair follicles, scratching at their scalp - curious to see how each individual responds. Some liked it rougher, others preferred his touch gentle and loving. He doesn't quite know what Will prefers, but give him time and the mystery shall be unraveled.

This is the most physically intimate he's been with Will. Previously, it had been brief attention paid to Will's shoulder or arm, or Hannibal's hand to Will's back in an effort to guide him over to sit. Most of the contact had the barrier of clothing and the constraint of propriety, for it would have been rude to let his touch linger in the beginning. Now, with Will's permission, Hannibal touches and observes Will's audible response to his fingers tightening. How interesting. No protest comes and this pleases Hannibal.

"You needn't concern yourself with what I'm doing," Hannibal replies, a sliver of amusement evident in his voice. "If it feels pleasant and relaxes you, that's all that matters." He tugs again at Will's hair, pulling Will's head back, tilting it to allow himself to be able to gaze down at Will's face.

"And you're quite right, there's no point in arguing with me. I'll be there by six." A small curve of his lips follows before releasing his hold. Dexterous fingers begin to massage at Will's head now, bringing forth disarray to Will's hair.

* * *

This _is_ the most tactile that Hannibal has ever been with Will before. Will's used to hands on his shoulder or on the small of his back. Their hands have brushed when Hannibal's opted to refill his wine glass, or when passing him his coat. This is significantly more blatant but it still doesn't register as _bad_. His shoulders ache pleasantly from the massage and his muscles feel far less tight than they had earlier. The stress of the last few days hasn't disappeared, but here, in Hannibal's closed office, the world makes more sense. The smell of old books reminds Will of the libraries he used to hide out in, in University, and the office is open enough to not feel claustrophobic but not so open as to echo. It's comfortable and Hannibal's chairs are the type Will could have fallen asleep in had they been at his place. Ultimately the end result is that when Hannibal's fingers tug at Will's hair again, Will goes with it.

He's not expecting Hannibal to tug his head _back_ and his eyes snap open in mild alarm simply at the feeling of being unbalanced (he's more than used to that, thanks) but he comes very close to meeting Hannibal's eyes by accident. It doesn't matter that Hannibal doesn't affect him as much as other people (or at all). He's still seen too many eyes as of late. But before he can express his displeasure, his head comes to rest against the back of the chair and the tightened grip feels grounding instead of stifling. What tension had flooded back into him soon abates and - after a moment - Will wets his lips and then lets his eyes fall closed. He can feel Hannibal watching him and it's uncomfortable, but even that discomfort fades as Hannibal starts to massage his fingers through his hair. Will's hands drop back to his lap with a muffled sound that might have once been a groan, but the angle of his throat smooths it out into a lower hum.

"It does feel pleasant," Will confirms, borrowing Hannibal's words because it takes less effort. His tone is lower, slightly slurred. "Feels like I could go to sleep like this. I haven't been getting much. Hospitals," he adds, by way of explanation. "But I guess I wasn't getting much before then either."

* * *

It's a calculated risk to yank Will's head back. Hannibal witnesses the slight shock - Will's eyes flying open - but after a moment, Will seems to settle back into a calmer head space. Keeping Will unbalanced - as tempting as it is at times - is not what Hannibal is aiming for here. There's no need to force Will's head to remain tilted and for them to make blatant eye contact. Hannibal had simply been curious whether Will would remain pliant or if he would spook like a deer - but Will had chosen to allow it. What else would Will remain pliant in, Hannibal wonders.

Hannibal's eyes scan around the familiar confines of his office, furnished to his liking, filled with books, art and topped with a mezzanine. Compared to the harshness of the hospital, Hannibal believes his office likely feels like a safe refuge for Will. This thought pleases him. They've had many a tantalizing conversation within these walls and Hannibal hopes there's many more to come.

The _sound_ Will makes from his uncomplicated ministrations elicits a prickle on Hannibal's skin. Hannibal inhales quietly and scents a growing arousal - likely one Will isn't even aware of. How curious.

“As much as I would like to encourage you to sleep, ultimately you would be sore and come to regret it afterward," Hannibal begins. His hands alternate between scratching, massaging, and lightly pulling on Will's hair. Varied sensations to keep Will engaged (and possibly aroused for Hannibal is unsure which sensation is more pleasurable for Will).

"I'm going to insist that I drive you to my house and you sleep in my guest room for the night. You're in no state to be driving back to Wolf Trap in your condition. I'll make us breakfast tomorrow morning and you can pick up your car when I come to work."

* * *

Hannibal's fingers are slow and relaxing. Gone are Will's protestations and uncertainty regarding Hannibal's fingers in his hair. It's not what he'd been expecting. It's not hands on his shoulders or his neck, but it's just as relaxing. Will doesn't allow people close enough to massage him to begin with but he allows even fewer people to touch his hair. His dogs will nuzzle in close and paw at him by times, or he'll wake up with a cold nose to his cheek and a tongue eagerly licking his face and his hair, but this is rhythmic and soothing and Will relaxes further. Had Hannibal not kept his head pulled back, it would have been lolling by now, and while there is the lingering prickle of Hannibal's eyes on him, his gaze is polite. He's not demanding anything, he's merely... checking in, or something. It's comforting.

There are prickles of sensation shivering out through him, down his spine, along his jaw and his neck, buzzing all the way to his fingers as tense muscles finally release. Will's not as guarded, his brow pinching a little every time Hannibal pulls on his hair, but the way his breath hitches likely speaks for itself. He doesn't notice the warmth sliding through him, doesn't really connect it to arousal, but his body does. He's exhausted and this feels good. It's that simple. But the scratch of Hannibal's nails over his scalp draw soft, lazy-content sounds from his throat. It means that when Hannibal makes his offer, Will is hardly in a place to decline. He hums a soft sound of approval even if part of him does want to protest, and a soft groan escapes him as Hannibal tugs again.

"No point in arguing," Will decides, and his voice is stretched thin due to the angle of his throat. "I don't _feel_ like I'd be safe driving. I don't want to put you out, but I'm not going to turn you down. Jack'd have my head if I got into an accident."

* * *

Hannibal could look to see just how far along Will's arousal is - if an erection is visible - but he's a gentleman. There's no _real_ need to see or know. Hannibal is fairly certain Will holds no attraction for him - or for men in general - it's simply that Will has let his guard down and is touch starved. Likely it's been awhile since he last had an orgasm or a partner. Even so, there's a tinge of gratification present in Hannibal that he's managed to rouse Will as he has. He likes control, after all, and being the one to bring Will both relaxation and arousal is pleasing to Hannibal.

"Exactly. We mustn't let anyone have your head now... Would hardly seem fair to you seeing as it's just begun healing." Hannibal's tone is light. Admittedly, this is a little abnormal for him to be joking, but he finds himself in an excellent mood all things considered. He had been uncertain before, unsure if he actually _wanted_ Will to be treated for the encephalitis (for the possibilities of witnessing his spiral into further instability _would_ have been fascinating). But the decision was made and, in doing so, Will's trust had deepened, he finds that he feels very little regret in the matter. Hannibal digs his nails a little harder into Will's scalp, scratching along the side before he again allows his fingers to curl into Will's hair. He holds tightly for a moment and then pulls harder - harder than he has previously been doing.

"Do you like this too, Will? Or is it too rough?"

* * *

The joke is unexpected enough that it catches Will off guard. He's hardly had cause to laugh over the past few days - few weeks, really - but the drugs he's on are making him feel exhausted, and Hannibal's hands have effectively chased away his lingering tension. He just feels _good_ , and he hasn't felt good in a long fucking time either. So Hannibal's soft comment is enough to bring a small twitch to his lips, enough to make him let out a soft breath of a laugh that would have been fuller had his throat not been bared. It hits him in a wry area that isn't really funny (because he suspects that Jack will still want his head when all of this is done, because there will always be 'crazy sons of bitches' left to catch and Will's mental real-estate is in hot demand) but he feels more able to see the absurdity in this now that his brain isn't dying.

"Damn right," Will murmurs back, and his voice is a little more gruff, throat tighter in amusement.

He's not expecting the slow, rhythmic cadence in his hair to change. Hannibal's found a rhythm capable of making him fall asleep and as... unprofessional as this moment probably is, Will simply chalks it down to the fact that Hannibal had been a physical doctor once. He can still remember him, the way he'd looked with his hand an open chest cavity, massaging a living heart to keep it beating. A shiver trickles through him, the same kind of dark insidiousness that whispers to him at night and at crime scenes. So of course, because life is rarely kind to him, _that_ is when Hannibal's touch changes, when his fingers curl and tug, and Will's breath catches obviously, his back arching a little in a way to both chase and relieve pressure. Hannibal's voice slides over him, and it's at that state - between fatigue and surprise - that he finally realizes that not only is Hannibal talking about him _liking_ something or it being 'too rough', but Will's body apparently doesn't know when a physical reaction is appropriate. Will stills, approval dying on his tongue, and a prickle of embarrassed heat slides through him, his eyes finally open again. There is... _absolutely_ no way Hannibal hasn't noticed. Shit.

"I-- it's fine," he says, awkwardly, and immediately cringes, because his voice is rough enough to indicate that it's _more_ than fine, in fact. Christ. "Not too rough, no. You don't-- you don't need to do this. For me, I mean. I'm fine."

* * *

The hint of a laugh is a reward for Hannibal. In his day to day dealings he doesn't often have the opportunity to utilize humor (or if he does, it's only for himself to be inwardly amused), so having Will respond as he does is a rare treat. The ' _damn right_ ' Will mutters out is actually endearing to Hannibal and has his lips curving into a smile - one that Will won't be privy to. Their current position allows Hannibal the freedom to let his control ease up some and be more genuine in his reactions.

But it's Will's breath stuttering, his back curving away from the chair that brings a more affected expression to Hannibal's face: pale eyebrows raise, his eyes widen slightly and he looks down needing to better take in Will's response. It's quite obvious that Will happens to like it rougher. As much as it would be fun to inquire on the floundering, on the apparent embarrassment that's following, Hannibal doesn't. Another time, perhaps.

"Did I imply you weren't fine, Will?" He asks instead, his voice calm, soothing. "And I am fully aware that I don't _need_ to. I _want_ to and therefore I am." Hannibal hums thoughtfully, his hold easing as his fingers instead run through Will's hair from the base of his neck to his forehead.

"Would you prefer that we stop?"

* * *

Hannibal _has_ to know. If he'd been able to smell the encephalitis then he can damn well smell this too and Will can't help the tension beginning to creep back into his body. It's sluggish because Hannibal's done a good job at chasing it away, but even as Hannibal speaks, his voice soft and understanding, Will wants to kick himself. Of all the moments for his dick to get hard, _this_ is when his body chooses? At the touch of a _man_ who is his _friend_ , when he's so exhausted and shaky from a potent mix of antibiotics and steroids and coming off of an eternity of stress? Yeah, perfect timing. About as perfect as one of his first homicide cases, where he'd stepped too close, looked too deeply, and gained a reputation. Apparently grinning over a sexual sadist's scene isn't the mark of a stable man, regardless of how Will had insisted he couldn't remember.

It shouldn't be possible to _be_ hard right now. He's stressed, he's weary, and he feels borderline dizzy with exhaustion, but Hannibal's touch is welcome. The urge to move away rears within him again but before he can find an excuse, Hannibal's hold eases and his fingers glide through Will's hair in a soothing stroke that has a reluctant shiver working its way through him. His lips are a thin line of uncertainty, but it isn't until Hannibal says that he _wants_ to do this that Will remembers another important tidbit. Hannibal's a doctor. Maybe he doesn't practice anymore (open wounds, gloved hands slick with blood, reaching inside a man to coax his heart back into beating; Will swallows) but he's probably seen it all before. Though reluctant, Will finds himself relaxing against the chair again. He's torn between logic and humiliation, but in the end, Hannibal's soft, soothing voice and gentle touch quiet his alarm again. Will wets his lips.

"Not... not really. I just... you're sure this is okay? Uh... all of it?" Yeah, he's subtle.

* * *

There is no way Hannibal can precisely know what Will is feeling or thinking in this moment. He is no psychic nor does he possess Will's gift of extreme empathy. All he can do is postulate, take what he knows and has observed about Will both in the past and present and try to form a complete picture. Will is likely exasperated both confused and frustrated by his body's reaction to the touch. Will had sought comfort and stability and while the touch had been comforting, perhaps it had been too much. This doesn't shock or bother Hannibal. If anything, it presents them with more doorways to explore, another way to wrap himself around Will.

"You'll find that I am not easily shaken, Will," Hannibal replies, his fingers scratching again, taking safer actions while he assures Will. "All of it, as you've put it, is fine with me." Hannibal pauses and takes a deeper breath, letting his words ruminate with the seated man.

"You've been under incredible pressure working for Jack - fraying at the seams for quite some time now - but you're the well loved stuffed rabbit the child can't bear to let go of..." Hannibal smiles to himself at the analogy. "Of course the encephalitis compounded that stress. The hospitalization and treatment, although necessary, have worn you down considerably. At the risk of veering into personal topics, I imagine you haven't connected intimately with a partner for some time." Hannibal purposefully grasps at Will's hair again and yanks.

"Considering that, is it really so surprising you're reacting as you are? Touch is touch. Stimulation is stimulation. The _who_ and _where_ and _why_ don't always factor into the equation of arousal."

Hannibal then pulls tighter - pushing Will - seeking to discover Will's tolerance in this particular area. Is Will a masochist, or does he simply like the sensation one gets when their hair is pulled? (Hannibal is more interested in this specific question than he'd like to admit.)

* * *

Mortification. Will is pretty sure that word properly sums up every fucking second of this conversation when Hannibal starts to talk about _personal topics_. It's fine up until then. Hannibal's logic is sound, and the gentle pass of fingers through his hair is relaxing. Will's embarrassment had started to calm, quieted by soft mentions of stress, of Hannibal not being easily shaken, of Will coming apart at the seams like the fucking Velveteen Rabbit. Hannibal's mentioning of the encephalitis compounding his stress and Will's horrible time at the hospital had been soothing, a justification of his exhaustion, of the way his mind has been spiraling. He _feels_ worn down, feels exhausted, and Hannibal's voice is professional but soothing in a way Sutcliffe could only dream of. But then he mentions _personal topics_ and starts to talk about connecting intimately and Will feels a hot flush sweep through him because he realizes that Hannibal is going to mention his fucking arousal.

Will silently bids him not to, hopes that Hannibal will stop. Just as he's beginning to find the mind to protest, Hannibal's fingers tighten in his hair and _yank_ and Will's lips - parted to protest - instead let out a sudden sound against his will. It's strained, clipped, but loud because his mouth hadn't been closed to bite it back. Will's torn between mortification and something entirely different. The sharp prickle of pain originating from the tug slides down in a sensory path all the way to his dick and Will can _feel_ his face burning. That Hannibal keeps talking about 'touch' and 'stimulation', his voice perfectly level, definitely doesn't help. And then he says it, subtly but still directly pointing out the fact that Will is hard in his jeans and Will cringes back. Or he would have, had Hannibal not tightened his hold. It's... a curious sensation, the grip going from tight to painful, and Will's voice breaks on a soft, pained sound of desperation that he doesn't mean to let out, but also can't help.

He arches into it, his hands coming to find the armrests of the chair as he pushes up, chasing Hannibal's touch to relieve pressure.

" _Fuck,"_ he bites out, tight and strained, but there's a curious grounding point where Hannibal's hands are tight in his hair. Thoughts of Sutcliffe and the past few weeks, of his stress at work and Jack's overbearing presence, of Abigail and Nicholas Boyle, all of it is eclipsed by the tug of Hannibal's hand in his hair. He feels lighter, focused, even if 'confused as hell' also applies here.

"Hannibal," Will says, and his voice is _almost_ a whine (which only adds to his mortification). "That's... that's not helping." If his intention is to get Will soft, it's not helping. Will doesn't know what else to think.

* * *

Will’s response to the violent tug is at first audible and Hannibal finds himself delighted by the noise. Will Graham has always been expressive, but these are reactions that Hannibal hasn't had the chance to witness - until now. Hannibal can smell Will's arousal increase at the sharpness - perhaps it's because of his words - Hannibal bringing light to the previously unspoken elephant in the room - or it _could_ be from the pain. It's quite possible Will has a masochistic side to himself, one he may not even be aware of himself. (And what would it be like to probe Will's masochism? Hannibal _thinks_ he knows his own sadism, but it's rare that it gets to come out and play...)

He _could_ suggest that Will masturbate. Right here, in the office and with Hannibal's hands in disheveled hair... Hannibal's certain he could phrase it in such a way that it would seem _practical_ , logical even _._ It wouldn't bother Hannibal, no. If anything, it would be interesting to test Will in this, to see if Will would be desperate enough for release (reckless enough). It wouldn't even matter if Will turned down the offer, for that, too, is something to examine - the implications, the _why._ Will is a fascinating subject and Hannibal likes the idea of introducing different stimuli and taking in Will's reception of them.

"Am I supposed to be helping?" Hannibal inquires, voice low. This... this is unwise, but Will's struggle, the embarrassment, the arousal - the sheer conflict - it's far too tempting to let go of so Hannibal doesn't let go of his hold on Will's hair. Not yet. (Soon, he tells himself.) "One could argue that I _am_ , in fact, helping. Perhaps you need this... Do you think you need this, Will?" Purposefully vague.

* * *

"I... I don't--" Will cuts himself off. The tight grip of Hannibal's fingers in his hair is painful but it feels familiar, comforting in a sick sense. It feels like the way he grips his own hair during an attack, when his mind and the minds of the killers he hunts begin to converge and twist and it becomes a battle to remain afloat. Those are the nights he loses himself in his dogs or in a bottle and wakes up caked in sweat, panting, and either on the verge of throwing up or on the verge of orgasm depending on which mind has neatly slid over his like plastic wrap, suffocating and sealing him in until he perforates the seal. He grips his own hair those nights, or steps into a scalding or freezing shower, anything he can do to shock himself back.

His mind isn't lost now. He is perhaps more himself now than he's been in quite some time, but there's also a danger in that, in spending so much time in his own fucking head. Especially now when it's still so unstable.

But Hannibal's helping with that. Is _that_ his intention? Will hysterically finds himself wondering if Hannibal can really know him that well. Maybe he's not trying to get Will soft at all. Maybe it's inconsequential to him because his focus is on getting Will out of his own goddamned head. If that's the case, if Hannibal's fingers are there to lift him above himself, maybe he does need this. Hannibal's words are vague but he's always vague, always trying to get Will to put things together on his own. He doesn't _want_ to in this case; he's exhausted, both mentally and physically.

"I don't know. Yes?" He finally finishes, a note of desperation in his tone. His dick is hard, he's mortified, but Hannibal's voice is soothing and his grip is firm. Will swallows, painfully visible with his head tilted back. "It's... it's difficult to think. Like this. Is... is that what you're doing?"

* * *

Will's initial feeble protest isn't accepted as gospel. It's the super-ego reacting, it's what Will _thinks_ he _should_ say. Hannibal has heard this - society's morals and values being spit back at him - from many patients and in many variations. He'd roll his eyes if he wasn't better behaved. But Will, like everyone else, wants to be normal, wants to feel normal. Unfortunately, this is in direct conflict with what Hannibal desires.

"Then don't," Hannibal supplies. "Don't think. Just remain present with me. You're safe. I've got you. Whatever you're thinking, whatever you're feeling, is perfectly alright. There's no judgment from me." He doesn't address Will's question. (For all Hannibal knows and intuits, in this moment he's not entirely sure what he is doing; it's both a thrill and a discomfort.) He'll attempt to relax and ground Will, to take control and allow Will a reprieve from the confines of his own mind. Hannibal's grip eases and his fingers slide to Will's temples and rub.

"I want you to simply relax for me, Will. It's all felt good, yes? Even the rougher touch, the sting, holds something pleasant underneath, doesn't it?"

* * *

Don't. Don't think. Will's reasonably sure the only time he'd heard that before had been back in high school, one of his first fumbling attempts with a girl in the back of her car. He'd been stressed, overthinking, and she'd finally just sighed at him and told him not to think. Will believes this time might go smoother. No fumbling, no assertion, though the embarrassment and arousal is pretty much the same. Will swallows but he can't deny that Hannibal's instructions hold merit.

Without anything else he can do, Will does what Hannibal says. He's weary and embarrassed enough that while he wants to protest and insist whatever this is, he doesn't need it, he doesn't. While he doesn't know what the fuck this is, it _is_ helping. His concerns aren't on Sutcliffe or Abigail or Jack or anyone else. They're only on Hannibal, and his own embarrassment that Hannibal doesn't seem to care about. He reluctantly lets the words wash over him, trying to follow the instructions. To remain present, to allow himself the thoughts. _This_ he knows. This is mindfulness, and while he wants to scoff at Hannibal using it on him (as it has never worked before) the distraction of touch is... beneficial. Hannibal holds his hair until it hurts and then holds it more, but he soon relaxes his grip and Will sinks back down against the seat with a rough sound of relief. His scalp prickles and tingles and Hannibal's touch has him relaxing again. He _could_ argue, but he doesn't. Instead he wets his lips, tries to shove past his own humiliation (Hannibal isn't judging him), and nods as much as he can.

"Yeah. Yeah, it does. It was... unexpected. But it wasn't bad."

* * *

Hannibal is certain that if he had simply suggested they do a mindfulness exercise Will would have balked at it. The physical contact, however, has worked like a lubricant and Will appears willing despite his obvious embarrassment. Will relaxes again under the softer touch and Hannibal can't help but think he rather enjoys the idea of winding Will up only to change tactics after - to shift between deliberate pain and then a soothing caress.

"I know this is difficult for you. It's not in your nature to be so compliant, but you're doing very well Will, just as I asked. I'm pleased," Hannibal murmurs. Reassurance (or praise) is likely vital in this activity. He rubs along Will's hairline before his fingers brush through Will's hair with only the slightest of drags - a hint at what _could_ happen next.

"I would like you to focus on your breathing, Will. Deep breaths, please.... Think about each breath entering your body, bringing with it oxygen necessary for life and functioning. You are alive and well now. On the mend... And with each exhale tension leaves and you are more relaxed. Safe. With me. Here in my office, sitting down, my hands on you."

Granted it's not the usual script, but Will is not his usual patient.

* * *

"Of all the things I've been called, 'compliant' hasn't been one of them, no," Will murmurs back, because without the tight grip in his hair he can at least think more. This time his thoughts are more centered. He's still exhausted, still feels like he could fall asleep right where he is, neck kink or not, but there's something about the way Hannibal phrases what he says that settles something in Will's chest. He isn't sure he likes being called compliant; it makes him want to shove back just a little, but just as he starts to squirm, Hannibal soothes him back down like he'd been expecting it. Will shifts, uncomfortable with how comfortable he _does_ feel at being told he's doing well.

"And I'm-- I'm not _doing_ anything," he protests, argumentative simply because it feels better to be.

But the return to real mindfulness does get Will's attention. He still squirms a bit, clearly not pleased with the return to something so basic. Nevertheless, Will sighs and closes his eyes, breathing in deeply when bidden and letting it out when Hannibal tells him to. The first few breaths are merely breaths. The fourth actually does take some tension with it when he starts to focus on Hannibal's hands. Will merely hums softly in the back of his throat, but every time Hannibal's fingers slide through his hair with a hint of _more_ , he holds his breath, almost expectant. He's not sure what to expect now, and maybe that's the problem.

* * *

That Will tries to resist, squirming a little and insisting he's not playing along - not _doing_ anything - has Hannibal entertained. It's a genuine Will Graham response, defensive to the bitter end. But Hannibal appreciates a little fight, or at least when it comes from Will he does. He wouldn't be nearly as interested in Will if he was weak minded and overly docile.

"It's a challenge to be able to truly relax, is it not?" Hannibal asks. He notices Will's struggle, the way he fidgets and tries to breathe deeply but cannot help holding in a breath at the possibility of a rougher touch returning. Mindfulness and deep breathing while in a state of arousal is likely an exercise in futility.

"Your body, weary from all you have been through, longs to let go and rest, yet you remain worked up." Hannibal's splays his fingers over Will's head before curling them and scratching down rather hard. "Have you always been aroused by pain or is this a new development?" He may be overstepping, this may be too direct for Will.

* * *

"You say that like I've ever been able to relax," Will grumbles back. The closest Will ever gets to true relaxation is either cold winter mornings with his dogs or long hours in the stream near his house. Even then tension hounds him, vague thoughts and hallucinations abound and while Will has hope that maybe now he knows _why_ he's been feeling like shit lately the thoughts and hallucinations will fade, he's afraid to put too much stock into it.

Mindfulness is impossible like this. While Will can kind of focus on Hannibal's voice and his touch, he has to admit that it _is_ helping a little. The relaxing, soothing cadence of Hannibal's voice interspersed with Will's uncertainty regarding what Hannibal's hands are going to do next leave him anticipatory. Hannibal's right about Will feeling weary. Hannibal's right about a lot of things, but just as Will begins to consider a sound of agreement, Hannibal's grip changes once again and nails scratch sudden and hard over his scalp. It catches Will off guard, as Hannibal has every time thus far. This one does hurt and he jerks with a hissed in drawn breath, his nails digging into his jeans as his scalp burns softly in the aftermath. Will's dick unhelpfully throbs but Will doesn't even notice until Hannibal continues. And that... that is direct and blatant and Will freezes, his eyes snapping open again. The concept gives him pause and he looks like he's trying to work on what to say for a few seconds before the flush of mortification returns. Immediately he shifts, embarrassed.

"I'm not a masochist," Will says immediately, and hates the breathlessness in his voice, how shaky it sounds. He swallows and itches suddenly for a jacket or a book or something to put over his lap. "I don't know why that's happening. What-- what kind of therapy did you say this was?" Will replies, immediately deflecting.

* * *

It is too direct, stepping into an area Will considers to be too personal and therefore off limits, but Hannibal doesn't think it's a misstep _per se_. Will may be deflecting, but he's still seated before Hannibal. Will _is_ still playing along and that's what matters. He wants Will genuine, in all of his conflict and doubt, to let Will fight back, as Hannibal plans to challenge him more than Will could ever know.

"I didn't say this was any kind of specific therapy. You were tense and I offered as a friend to help relieve that tension," Hannibal replies smoothly. He's not ruffled in the least nor is he repentant as his hands yank Will's head back once more and he peers down at the flushed face, gripping the sweaty strands tightly.

"Now, what I am curious about is the obvious judgment you hold toward the idea of being a masochist. It's quite common, probably more than you would suspect and there's certainly nothing wrong with such proclivities if both partners are consenting... But what might we surmise about _me_ in this position, Will?"

 _This_. Inviting Will to focus on him, allowing Will to peek under the veil. _This_ has the potential to undo all of Will's trust in him, but perhaps Hannibal will be pleasantly surprised. If Will does react poorly, he will have to reevaluate Will's potential worth. His face is impassive, but if Will dares to look he will find Hannibal's sadism, he will see Hannibal's interest and intrigue.

* * *

Will has every plan to get up. He's even bracing his hands against his thighs, gathering the equilibrium he needs in order to stand. Later maybe he'll argue that the medication made him slower, or that he was too tired to react quickly, but whatever the reason, he's still more or less seated when Hannibal reaches out and his fingers again find Will's hair. This time Will feels an uncomfortable swell of panic because Hannibal has never _pushed_ before. He insists, he encourages, but he's never chased before. He's usually content to allow Will to pull and lead until he's had enough and then he simply allows Will to go, to wander back to safer pastures. This time, Will can almost feel the lead around his throat.

His neck hurts after that last tug and Will grunts, arching again to ease the pull to his hair. His scalp is already sore from the scratch but this just compounds it. It's sore, it's too much - or close - and Will feels the twist of apprehension and pain settle low where it doesn't fucking belong. He'll deal with that later, when Hannibal _isn't_ speaking, when he isn't _looking_ at him like Will's mildly interesting but like he's missed something. Will feels a spark of confused anger inside and he glares uncomfortably at Hannibal.

"If... if your goal was to _relieve_ my tension, you're doing an awful fucking job," he snaps back. "I don't know what we can _surmise_ about you, that's not my--"

And then it clicks. The thought hits him first, and then because he _knows_ it's bullshit, he does dare to look. He looks and while Hannibal is still guarded, still careful and considerate not to overwhelm him as best as he can, he's made the decision to peel back the veil. It's a glimpse, but it still stuns Will, because just for that moment he can see it, how he has to look. His head pulled back, his face flushed, his jeans tenting... and he can feel Hannibal's intrigue like a pointed shove forward. He sees interest, curiosity, and something else that Will can hardly believe.

"...You're a sadist?" He asks, and he can't stem the desperate confusion in his voice.

* * *

There is a sharp scent of not quite fear emanating from Will, but Hannibal refuses to let go. (He's not the only reckless one in the room.) This is the first time he's pushed Will to this degree... And it likely won't be the last (if this doesn't obliterate the friendship, that is).

Will's rudeness - his retort - is actually deserved. While the offer of a massage, initially, had been for that sole reason - to reduce tension - it had taken a turn and veered off course when Hannibal's hands had introduced themselves to Will's head. Not even Hannibal would deny it. Of course Hannibal had to push, had to play. He'd been curious about Will's reaction to hair pulling, to a rougher touch. And perhaps... Perhaps he'd simply _wanted to_ for not every impulse evolved around his curiosity and desire to meddle. He is still only human after all and sometimes he gives in to his whims.

When Will does accept the challenge their eyes meet and Hannibal can see the instant the pieces fall into place for Will. _Yes_. Will sees a little and is able to construct a more complete image of Hannibal in that magnificent mind if his. Hannibal's eyes widen in acknowledgment, a pleased curve to his mouth makes a brief appearance before Hannibal schools the expression away.

"With consenting partners, yes, I am. Sometimes it's sexual, sometimes it's not." Hannibal let's Will's head go as he makes his way to his desk to close his appointment book and gather his things. Their allotted time has come to an end.

* * *

Hannibal is a sadist. The words catch in his mind like a fly tangling in a spider's web, struggling and confused and trapped in a way it can't explain. Will feels like the bottom has dropped out of the chair because this isn't something he'd been expecting. Hannibal is guarded, yes, but he's _helpful_. He pushes, he guides, he's... he's _kind_ when no one else is, and while Will knows that mild sadism doesn't often register as a psychological issue, he's been a cop for too long to not know the connotations. He's stood in the center of gruesome scenes marked by sexual sadists, has seen actual suffering. He's felt the thrill. Fuck, Budge had been a sadist. The Chesapeake Ripper's a sadist. Hobbs hadn't been, but Will has known far too many to be immediately comfortable.

But Hannibal goes on, agreeable, mentioning _consent_ and Will feels a little like Hannibal's just slid a platform under his feet again, given him some grounding. Consenting partners. Will feels a spike of humiliation and uncertainty tear through him. Had Hannibal assumed _he'd_ been... shit, no, he's not going down that road yet. The hand leaves his hair abruptly, leaving Will feeling like Hannibal's just knocked his chair out from under him. but he immediately leans forward and sets his face in his hands, rubbing hard. Hannibal is a sadist. He'd been curious, had pushed, but he'd also been grounding. And Will... well, fuck, Will _knows_ how he reacted. Had Hannibal thought he was attempting to come on to him or something? Fuck, there's a lot to think about, a lot to process, and he's too exhausted to make sense of it.

All Will can really focus on is one thing. Hannibal had wanted to talk about the way Will had denied being a masochist. The vehemence behind it, the defensiveness perhaps. He'd pushed then, like it had been personal, like...

"I didn't... I didn't mean to insult you," Will manages finally, awkwardly, and his voice is so stilted it's practically carved in stone. "I didn't know. It's just... not something I've ever thought about, and I've seen too much shit on the job to have pleasant associations with masochism. Or sadism. I've only seen the, uh... the worst of it. Tobias Budge... Larry Wells. You know."

* * *

While his reveal hadn't been met with the best of receptions, it certainly could have gone much worse. Considering Will's experience and knowledge regarding sadism in his line of work, Hannibal is aware that letting such a thing be known is quite unwise. Normally his forays into poor decision making stem from boredom, but could he claim that this time? No, not really. After all, his recent altercation with Tobias and Franklin had been rather entertaining. But seeing Will's response had spurred him on, he hadn't been able to hold himself back. The possibility of Will enjoying pain - pain by _his_ hand - had been too alluring to pass up. Maybe he'll come to regret it - both his actions and the slip into honesty - but what's done is done.

"It's quite alright, Will," Hannibal replies, a mask of calm sliding back into place. (He's surprised to find a note of resentment present in himself that this topic will likely have to be dropped and swept under the rug.) His hands order a few items on his desk before slipping on his suit jacket. Deft fingers do up the buttons while he keeps an eye on Will. Will looks conflicted, but not like he's ready to bolt. This is good.

"You didn't insult me, but I hope you don't lump me in with the likes of Budge and your other psychopaths. I assure you I'm nothing like them. But I will apologize to you for my misjudgment concerning you, Will. If you say you are no masochist, then you are no masochist." Back to being gracious, back to letting Will believe a lie. Hannibal checks his messages before pocketing his cellphone and coming back around the desk. There's an obvious distance between them now. Hannibal feels it profoundly and undoubtedly Will does as well.

"I overstepped as a friend and I hope you won't hold it against me, nor see me as someone who was seeking to take advantage."

* * *

"What? No, you're nothing like them." Will doesn't need to think about this. The way his brow furrows and the expression of mild alarmed confusion on his face says that his response isn't rehearsed. It takes Will a moment to realize what Hannibal is implying and he rubs at his face, then shakes his head again, his frown deepening. "No, you're- that's not what I meant." This. This is why Will doesn't have friends. He sees too much and closes himself off, and because he closes himself off, he doesn't think. He doesn't make connections the way other people do, and by the time he realizes he's been offensive, the damage is already done.

The word _masochist_ hangs on the air between them like a buffer. Will wets his dry lips and is acutely aware of how tight his jeans are and of the lingering tingle in his scalp. He's confused, and while he knows something has shifted, he isn't sure how to address it. Psychology he understands, but he doesn't understand _people_ the way he should. That Hannibal stops where he does, that he makes sure to keep a professional distance between them says it all. Will appreciates the courtesy but he also doesn't know what to do with it. Will Graham is not a man good with hurt feelings, and Hannibal's face is an impassive mask.

Sadist. The word doesn't fit. At least not Will's definition. He swallows, shies away from Hannibal's apology like it's a physical thing, and then again from the very implication that Hannibal could have been taking advantage of him. The distance Will can feel is stifling. He makes no move to get up. Hannibal is ready to leave (Will's not dumb, he knows Hannibal's been lingering) but Will isn't sure what he's walking into.

"I don't hold it against you. And you aren't the type to take advantage. Can you just-- can you sit? And explain to me _what_ you were doing? Why you were doing it? Were you trying to..." Will gestures vaguely, awkwardly down at his jeans. Hannibal really doesn't seem the type, and until he knows what to expect, he isn't sure how to proceed here.

* * *

Predictably, he's set Will scrambling, stumbling over his words as he tries, in his own unpolished way, to smooth things over. It is endearing to see him flounder and Hannibal does nothing to ease Will's discomfort, standing fully dressed and ready to leave. It's obvious that it's Will he's waiting on but Will... surprises him. Hannibal isn't expecting Will to invite him to sit again and for further conversation on the matter to be addressed. He nods, undoing the few bottom buttons on his suit jacket before walking back and taking a seat. They've now returned back to where they started.

"Very well," Hannibal replies, hands resting comfortably in his lap. He does his best to portray open body language, not crossing his legs or sitting too rigidly. He's attentive to Will, looking forward but not forcing eye contact. "The offer of a massage was for the stated purpose - to relieve tension. When I moved to your scalp, I thought the increased tactile sensation would provide a different sort of comfort as it's undoubtedly more personal and, as we both know, you are not touched often." Hannibal pauses and considers how best to broach the next topic.

"It wasn't my intention to arouse you, but I was curious how you would respond to a rougher touch. It's quite common to find a certain... headspace and relaxation at being under someone else's hand, at relinquishing control... Sometimes pain can achieve a similar result." Hannibal makes a point to be delicate with his words. Will undoubtedly would not take well to the idea of submission at this time.

"There was a risk that you could become aroused whether by the intimacy or the sensation, but my own curiosity overruled it at the time, for that I will apologize again."

* * *

Will isn't the type of man to chase down confrontation freely. He doesn't make trouble because it's not worth it. His temper rises sometimes and he can't fully contain it, but if wait staff get his order wrong, he doesn't complain. If Jack wants him out of bed at four in the morning, he grabs as many coffees as he can carry and he gets his ass down to fly out to whatever crime scene they need to go to. Will doesn't make waves, so even _he_ is surprised when he requests Hannibal to sit down.

The difference, Will thinks, is that in every other case, he doesn't care what happens given the situation. With Hannibal, he actually has something to lose. The possibility for friendship is an alien concept, but he and Hannibal - minus a rocky start - are familiar. Hannibal seems charmed by his bluntness and he's professional. Jack wants Hannibal to _temper_ him and so Will's let it happen. That he's found a friend is a surprising benefit, and while he wants to simply dart away, to insist on driving back to Wolf Trap, he isn't willing to jeopardize this because he's too distressed to ask.

So he asks. And Hannibal (looking only a little surprised, Will thinks) regards him and then reclaims his seat. Will folds his hands over his lap, leaning forwards to rest his elbows on his knees. He listens, wary, uncertain, but rapt. While he does glance away when Hannibal mentions that he's not touched often, Will doesn't close off. He merely shrugs a shoulder half-heartedly. But what Hannibal follows it up with, more careful, is what Will wants. He wets his lips, thoughtful.

"So you were trying to relax me. I can't say your methods were very professional, but... it was effective. I guess I felt relaxed. It was more... focused? I don't know." Will rubs at his face. Hannibal keeps saying 'aroused' and he's trying not to let the mortification show. "I'm sorry I was an asshole."

* * *

Hannibal knows that facing an awkward situation head on is not how Will usually operates.That Will has done so anyway gives him cause to believe, that while he's perhaps shaken up the foundation of their friendship, he hasn't done it irreparable damage. Whether Will simply feels more indebted to him or genuinely sees him as a friend, Hannibal can't be certain but he suspects it's the latter.

His answer smooths out Will's ruffled feathers, Will accepting Hannibal's explanation with no argument. "It's fine, Will. No harm, no foul," Hannibal says good-naturedly. At the very least, Hannibal has the satisfaction of knowing that a seed has been planted in Will's mind. Perhaps it will lie dormant, perhaps not. Will may not want to delve into such things, choosing to shy away from the notion that he could like pain or submission, as he hides away from his own darkness. Hannibal _should_ count this as a victory and not open up this particular chapter to peruse through, and yet...

"The act of submission, of putting your trust in another can be freeing in a sense. The world and the noise fades, your focus narrows, your senses are heightened as you become the center of that person's attention. While I don't consider myself to _be_ submissive nor do I take the role in such acts, I can see the appeal. How about you?"

* * *

Submission. The word, like 'sadist', jumps out at Will as Hannibal speaks and despite his confusion, despite his exhaustion, it gives him pause enough that he looks up at Hannibal sharply. Will doesn't meet his eyes directly; he's had enough eye contact for one week. His gaze lands around Hannibal's forehead instead and he blinks, startled. Will's not sure what he'd been expecting but this isn't it. Hannibal, once again, has thrown him for a loop. He opens his mouth to protest, then pauses. He closes it again and instead decides to listen, because while he _hadn't_ been submissive, he can't entirely claim that it isn't what Hannibal had intended.

He can't deny that the way Hannibal describes it is... appealing. He _also_ can't deny (much as he'd like to) that he had experienced at least a fraction of that sensation when Hannibal's fingers had curled in his hair. Will can feel heat settle in his cheeks and he finds his own hands clasped on his lap suddenly more interesting and far safer than looking directly at Hannibal. This isn't the conversation he'd assumed he'd be engaged in when he'd left the hospital in a huff to seek out better company.

"I don't know. I guess," Will says, awkwardly. "It sounds good in theory, kind of, but it requires trust. And I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm not exactly the poster child for trusting relationships." Will's smile is quick and sharp, more a grimace. "So... so let me get this straight. You saw I was..." Will flips a hand vaguely, "stressed after everything. You wanted to calm me down. I get that. But how did you make the jump from me being stressed to... _that?_ Do I strike you as particularly submissive?" Will is... not entirely certain he wants to know the answer to that. He thinks he already does.

* * *

Hannibal observes Will's telling reaction to his spiel on submission. Will doesn't meet his eyes, no, but he does look up and his eyes are on Hannibal's face. Hannibal can see a protest on the tip of his tongue, but Will remarkably refrains and chooses to _listen._ How interesting. Hannibal wonders if Will holds his tongue because he's perhaps intrigued by the subject, if it's simply out of respect for Hannibal, or if Will is trying to behave as not to further rock the boat.

As he finishes and Will considers what he’s just said, Will, predictably, looks down. Yes, those hands of Will's are much safer to look at. Although he enjoys the sight of Will in distress (the flush, the fidgeting, the stilted tone) Hannibal doesn't outwardly show it. He gazes ahead, impassive and waits for Will to gather himself up enough to speak. Hannibal is glad that Will isn't going to attempt to delude either of them, that Will is able to admit that it _sounds_ _good_ , at the very least. It's a start; it shows promise.

"I would argue that anyone who is under a great deal of stress and whose mind can overwhelm them, could benefit from such an arrangement," Hannibal says and, this, he believes to be true. "But I wouldn't say you strike me as _overly_ submissive, no... But the word _submissive_ often holds a negative connotation, that it's a sign of weakness. On the contrary, I think it takes a surprising amount of strength to be able to submit and yield to another - to consent and _allow_ oneself to be vulnerable. What do you think, Will?"

* * *

Will feels a little like someone has flipped a switch on what 'normal' is. Surely 'normal' isn't casual talks of recreational submission and dominance. Well... he does have to admit that typically conversation with Hannibal isn't known for being traditionally normal. While they speak of therapy sometimes, more often Hannibal serves as an unbiased friend. A wall for Will to bounce ideas off of, a floor of stability, and a paddle to direct him when he's feeling aimless. Thinking of this conversation in that way feels far less uncomfortable. This may not be for a case, but it _could_ be beneficial. At least this is a perspective Will's never gotten. While this is hardly the best time for debating sexual and recreational ethics, the only thing that sets this apart from any other conversation he and Hannibal have had are Will's physical reaction and how personal this topic seems to be for Hannibal.

Sadist. It still doesn't seem possible.

Will chews the inside of his cheek, clearly torn, but after drawing in a deep breath - subconsciously following the instructions Hannibal had given him before - he releases it and some of the tension in his shoulders eases. This is just a conversation. Even so, he hasn't missed that Hannibal only said he wasn't 'overly' submissive, not that he wasn't submissive. But considering what Hannibal follows it up with - that submission isn't weakness - perhaps he doesn't mean it negatively.

"I don't know. I don't know enough about it to make an informed decision. I'm not... coming from the best background to be able to say one way or another. I've never-- well," Will frowns, then amends his statement. "Uh, aside from you, I've never known anyone to... you know. Be involved. Talk about it." He goes quiet for a beat, because he can never truly turn his mind off, regardless of whether or not he wants to. Dots are connecting. "So you think I'd benefit from it," he says, and his voice is almost accusing, he forces it out so abruptly.

* * *

Hannibal would gladly converse about a vast array of topics with Will. He would prefer that they have no boundaries between them, that there be no paltry judgment pertaining to what's 'normal' or 'appropriate.' To have a companion that one could share openly and freely with, to explore whims and desires, fears and hopes. To take off the mask, to lift up the veil completely and expose the sacred and the profane... Hannibal has never _needed_ it, no. He still doesn't, but Will... Will holds promise. Perhaps one day, but not now. Not this evening. Hannibal's mask remains firmly in place and while he has revealed something intrinsic about himself - that he was a sadist - Will doesn't know him. (Most of the questions Will asks of him are simply Hannibal's questions turned around on him - deflection. As much as Hannibal may want Will to know about him, to be genuinely curious, Will had been the one to insist Hannibal wasn't interesting...)

Will seems to try and relax in this unknown arena, taking a slower breath in and Hannibal sees his postures ease up a little. Will may feel comfortable in his office and hopefully still around him, but this particular topic and its implications are new and alien. Overall, he's taking it well, acknowledging his lack of experience and his possible bias from his work. This pleases Hannibal.

"It's more common than you would think," Hannibal comments conversationally. "I'm sure you're aware of BDSM lifestyles or practices, for example." He wets his lips. "And I can intuit that, if you were to keep an open mind, you could perhaps find it beneficial."

* * *

"Of course I'm aware of BDSM," Will mutters back, not without a dash of attitude thrown in. "But that doesn't mean I know anything about the inner workings." He's sexually active once in a blue moon, sure, but that doesn't mean he's the virgin fucking Mary here. You learn a lot as a cop whether you want to or not, and Will had once been no stranger to coworkers boasting in his general vicinity. Back in New Orleans, he'd often spent a lot of his time either in the break room or in one of the spare rooms in the precinct. Coffee had sometimes drawn him out, and the unfortunate side effect of being around cops is that they tend to be a boastful bunch. Will had gleaned more from some of their conversations than he ever had all through college. That Hannibal is adding to his knowledge now might be weird but at least he's not fully ignorant.

But Hannibal's words - ' _if you were to keep an open mind, you could perhaps find it beneficial' -_ just rip right through him. Will freezes for a long moment, not uncomfortably, but definitely not moving as he thinks. His hands are still holding his interest as his lips thin, struggling against the idea of Hannibal's proposal. This isn't where he'd ever thought the conversation would be leading. There are questions he has - some defensive, some rude, some genuine - but not even Will knows which is going to come out until he says it. He's too exhausted for proper judgment calls here.

"That's all well and good. But... I don't know if you've noticed, but I don't know any women willing to try, and even if I did, again, not the poster child for trust here. I'm not--" Will pauses, because the spark of bitterness and hurt is sudden and quick. "I'm not exactly the most stable," he finishes, flatly. "That'd be an issue."

* * *

While Hannibal doesn't consider himself to be active in that particular lifestyle, he knows enough. He hadn't been lying about consenting partners. Unlike ending a life, there was no thrill unless the individual consented and wanted it - wanted to go to their knees, wanted to please him, wanted the possible humiliation, wanted the sting of pain... He wouldn't _take - Hannibal_ _could_ , but he wouldn't. He pushes, meddles, suggests... but he doesn't take, not in this way at any rate. Because knowing and having permission - seeing it in their eyes, their desperation, their unwavering trust - is a power to not exploit. Hannibal doesn't dabble often, but he's respectful about it.

Would Will be desperate for him, he wonders. Hannibal squints his eyes, taking in the beaten down form sitting across from him. Will is not any overly attractive man, at least not in the typical sense, but Hannibal has grown fond of his frayed seams, his rumpled clothing, untidy hair and patchy beard. He is fond of those cerulean blue eyes that see too much but look anyway. Will Graham is rugged and rough, but not in an overwhelming manner. He's also beautifully expressive, a piece of artwork that Hannibal takes in and appreciates no matter how many times he's viewed it before. Hannibal thinks he likes that best of all about Will. How would Will look in that sought after headspace, fully trusting him? How would he deal with scrutiny, with praise, with physical pain? Perhaps they will find out together.

"You trust me, do you not?" Right to the point. No beating around the bush. Hannibal levels him with a considering look. "It wouldn't be sexual for me, if that's at all a concern. It needn't be that way at all. This is simply an option to explore if you think it could help down the road. No decisions need to be made tonight. I'd prefer them not to be, honestly. You're far too tired to be committing to anything."

* * *

In retrospect, Hannibal's response shouldn't come as a surprise. Given the way the conversation has been going, it does make sense that they've wound up here, but when Hannibal just bluntly comes out and makes his suggestion, Will doesn't react. It takes him a moment to hear, and then another moment for the words to work through the haze of exhaustion and uncertainty in his mind. On top of that, it takes double the time for what Hannibal is _actually saying_ to register, but when he finally understands, Will blinks slowly. Hannibal is... _offering_. Immediately Will feels a small flush of mortification sweep through him. Something that mixes with uncertainty. Hannibal's looking right at him.

He wonders for a hysterical moment whether or not _this_ is what people call ethics boards for. But... this is Hannibal. It's not harassment. He isn't pushing, he's merely suggesting. That Hannibal insists it wouldn't be sexual _does_ help, but it still leaves Will feeling somewhat adrift. At least, it does until Hannibal assures him that he doesn't want Will to make decisions tonight. Will frowns, his mind buzzing with ideas and exhaustion, but he can't help but be relieved at the out.

"I... thanks. I'm not-- there's a lot to think about. But... " Will worries his lower lip between his teeth for a moment, then just can't help it. "I'm-- I'm straight. Wouldn't that be an issue? And what would _you_ be getting out of it?" Will asks, with a hint of desperation. "I can't imagine that's approved therapy."

* * *

He watches Will carefully, ever interested in any small details he can pick up. Will looks to be momentarily frozen, warring through fatigue and uncertainty to process what Hannibal has offered, for yes, it was an offering. He doesn't enter into this type of arrangement often, and it's never been with a patient before (although technically Will is _not_ his patient, but those are semantics). While arousal could easily blur into submission (as seen with Will), it wasn't always the case for his partners. Hannibal has no qualms about assisting or being involved in his partner's pleasure, but letting them 'return the favor' or touch him when not directed to was not allowed. He has the occasional affair, sometimes from boredom, other times to keep up appearances, and while he plays the part of the dutiful lover flawlessly, sex has never been something Hannibal needed.

That Will deigns to bring up his sexuality is not a surprise. Labels and definitions are how most make sense of the world around them. Straight. Submissive. Psychopath. Sadist. What did it _really_ matter? Far too often words held one back, quelled desires by limiting the possibilities.

"Your sexual orientation needn't be a factor in this matter," Hannibal answers; it's true. While Will becoming aroused had been intriguing, it's hardly a necessary component in exploring Will's possible submission. Yes, Hannibal is curious about that arousal, whether Will was simply _that_ touch starved with his guard down, or if it had been elicited by the pain. Hannibal thinks it's likely a mix.

"Also, might I remind you, we're not technically doing therapy," Hannibal says mildly, a hint of a smile on his face. "First and foremost, I care about you as a friend. I believe this could possibly help, so I've brought it up. As a practitioner, I often suggest to my patients that they pursue anything and everything available that may ease their suffering. We all have but one life to live." Hannibal gives a small shrug. "Of course I would be lying if I didn't mention my interest in a potential arrangement between the two of us. I am, after all, a sadist. But, for my part, it is nonsexual."

* * *

Nonsexual sadism. There are a few different descriptions for it that Will knows through his work. Sociopaths routinely fall under that category, though a sexual side to their sadism is also common. Same with psychopaths. But in all the time Will has known Hannibal, he's not gotten that feeling. Hannibal is guarded, yes, but when he does let emotion show, Will reacts to it. He can _feel_ it. He's dealt with sociopaths and psychopaths, has delved deeply into their minds, and standing across from them while wearing their masks simply registers as fake. He can spot empty, hollow eyes. He knows what killers look like. He can see it as easily as Hannibal can likely see through his small, crooked smiles that don't reach his eyes. But Hannibal doesn't fall under that category. Will can see a wealth of emotion in him, which means Hannibal is a breed he's not encountered before. It's... interesting, despite his embarrassment. Will swallows.

"I'll think about it," he says quietly, and he's surprised to realize he's actually serious. Hannibal's right after all. He's not _officially_ Will's psychiatrist, and he does care about Will. He's done nothing to push Will into an unpleasant scenario, and on top of it all, if Hannibal _is_ a sadist, he could have easily withheld the information about the encephalitis. That he hadn't shows he does care, or at least that his sadism is separate to himself. Will can feel questions burning behind his mind but considering his mind is still _actually_ burning, he holds them back for now.

"But... thank you. For caring. You didn't _have_ to tell me," he adds, a silent acknowledgement not only for the mention of sadism - Hannibal baring himself knowing fully well how Will would see it - but also for the referral to Sutcliffe.

"You probably saved my life... Um. Can we- can we go?"

* * *

It's a gamble letting Will in even a little, but Hannibal finds that he's not all that worried. At least not presently. He must tread delicately, slide his feet carefully along the icy surface of Will's comfort level, minding the threat of possible cracking and taking the necessary actions to manage a fracture if one does begin. He thinks he's done a commendable job this evening. (And if things do head south, he has a back up plan, of course. He's already started collecting the necessary pieces...)

Will's admission that he will think on it is said in a hushed voice, but Hannibal doesn't think Will is simply humoring him as Will isn't generally the type. It's a reasonable outcome and Hannibal isn't upset by it. If Will doesn't hastily attempt to sweep this topic under the the rug and repress it, Hannibal expects the possibilities and unknowns to sink their claws into Will's mind and hold on. Let questions and fantasies breed in Will's mind - it's a beautiful playground for such things.

When Hannibal receives another thank you, he graciously inclines his head in acknowledgment. Will implies that his gratitude includes Hannibal's little confession as well as the referral for the medical assistance. They're crossing lines into something resembling more of a mutual friendship - both exchanging tidbits of truth - and while it's risky, Hannibal hopes Will will be worth it. (He had spoken the truth: they all only have one go at life and while Hannibal isn't lonely per se, perhaps Will could bring some color into his own life...)

"Of course, let's be on our way then." And with that, Hannibal leads Will out of his office and locks up. The drive is filled with a comfortable silence between them while Vivaldi's Four Seasons plays, specifically the Summer Concerto in g-minor. Feeling in the mood, Hannibal quotes the beginning of the accompanying sonnet:

_"Sotto dura Staggion dal Sole accesa_

_Langue l' huom, langue 'l gregge, ed arde il Pino;_

_Scioglie il Cucco la Voce, e tosto intesa_

_Canta la Tortorella e 'l gardelino._

_Zeffiro dolce Spira, mà contesa_

_Muove Borea improviso al Suo vicino;_

_E piange il Pastorel, perche sospesa_

_Teme fiera borasca, e 'l suo destino..."_

* * *

There's a small part of Will that expects a fallout to his question. There's another part of him that kind of wants to just cut his losses and drive home because he and Hannibal have been over a lot that he needs to think about, but Hannibal had insisted on housing him for the evening and Will is too exhausted to argue. His only real relief is that his body has decided to catch up with him. He's too tired and sick to his stomach to stay hard for long. That he'd even been hard to begin with is still troubling, still confusing, but Will vows to think about it later. Instead he follows Hannibal out of the office when prompted and he wraps his jacket tighter around himself after stepping out into the chill. He's still burning up but he can function at least.

Hannibal's car is sleek and expensive and Will wants to comment on it, but he's exhausted. Instead he merely murmurs his thanks, sets his bag down, and slides into the passenger's seat when prompted with a low groan. The seat is comfortable and plush under him and Will reaches for the seat belt. Hannibal isn't long to join him and with some sort of classical something playing in the background, Will crosses his arms over his chest and leans back, silent but not sullen. He's just tired and unwilling to think about everything all at once.

As Hannibal drives, Will feels his eyes slowly beginning to close. He catches himself twice, but the third time he actually does close his eyes, his head nodding in the universal way one tries to fight off sleep. Before he can fully go under, Hannibal's voice sounds light and silken next to him. Will blinks and struggles to focus, but it doesn't take him long to realize this isn't English. He looks at Hannibal from under his eyelashes, stubbornly lifting his eyebrows to try and keep his eyes open.

"What... what's that mean?"

* * *

Hannibal doesn't often have a passenger in his car, but he's somewhat pleased that it's Will taking the spot and filling the seat with his slouched posture. It wreaks of exhaustion and weakness - states he'd normally find detestable - but he tolerates them on Will. This is but a shade of Will Graham, one angle being presented for the world to see. Hannibal suspects that underneath the nervous prickliness, behind the guarded desire to help and do good, is the capacity for great violence. He believes that lurking in the recesses of Will's mind is power waiting to first be realized and then grasped. All Hannibal needs is time - time to undo Jack's influence, time to build Will up brick by brick while becoming Will's foundation in the process. It sounds like an interesting project to involve himself in and Will is going to need monitoring as Hannibal is certain Jack will come knocking sooner than later. Tagging along on FBI duty is always amusing.

Will fights against falling asleep. It's not a surprise, no. Hannibal thinks hearing the Italian may help push him over the edge, but Will, of course, struggles valiantly and looks over to him after Hannibal has stopped and asks for the meaning.

"It's the beginning of Vivaldi's summer sonnet from Four Seasons," Hannibal explains softly. "The translation, if I do recall, is:

_Beneath the blazing sun's relentless heat_

_men and flocks are sweltering,_

_pines are scorched._

_We hear the cuckoo's voice; then sweet songs of the turtle dove and finch are heard._

_Soft breezes stir the air….but threatening north wind sweeps them suddenly aside. The shepherd trembles, fearful of violent storm and what may lie ahead_."

He says nothing else, foregoing to recite the second or third movements of the sonnet, figuring mentioning the threat of storms was enough for Will this evening. Will is eventually lulled into sleep and Hannibal enjoys the tempo of the piece speeding up by himself. At a stop light, he glances over and takes in the sleeping picture of Will. Will looks younger, his face slack. Innocent. His right hand reaches out but he catches himself before it can _do_ anything. A frown pulls at his lips as he redirects his hand back to the steering wheel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments & kudos appreciated! (*•̀ᴗ•́*)و ̑̑


	2. Desperation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He's a good dog. Loyal. Can't ask for more than that. But... it's not- you know it's not your job to look after me, right?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's raining men... ♫ ♥
> 
> Merry's [tumblr](http://merrythought.tumblr.com) | Dapperscript's [tumblr](http://reallymisscoffee.tumblr.com/)

Dinner. He'd agreed to dinner. Granted he'd agreed to dinner before the rest of the evening had snuck up on him, but given how the end of the appointment had gone, Will can't help but feel aimless as he wearily sinks back down on one of his under-used kitchen chairs, a sea of furry bodies sending him varying looks of concern. Winston licks Will's hand and Will glances at him before stroking his fingers back through Winston's fur.

Like Hannibal had with his hair the evening before.

Will cuts _that_ thought off at the pass, because even now - nearing 24 hours later - he still can't really believe what had been discussed.

He thinks back to the way Hannibal had gently shaken him awake in the car when they'd arrived at Hannibal's home. Will can't remember much even now, the memories foggy, but he remembers the solid grip of Hannibal's hand on his shoulder, remembers Hannibal showing him to the guest room, and remembers being told he had free use of the shower. At the time Will had just been exhausted. He'd fallen asleep on one of the comfiest mattresses he'd ever so much as touched and he hadn't even had the forethought to take his shoes off.

At least... he doesn't think he'd taken them off. They'd _been_ off the next morning, but Will still doesn't remember doing it himself. Still, he'd showered at Hannibal's place and Hannibal had been gracious enough to not only supply him with breakfast but to also give him enough to take home with him. There's a quiche in the fridge and he's been given reheating instructions but Will already knows he'll just eat it cold.

The sleep had been needed. He wouldn't have been able to drive back to Wolf Trap without it, and even then, Hannibal had still expressed a mild concern. It had felt normal at the time, business as usual, but now that Will's had a chance to think (after a long afternoon of taking care of the dogs and then passing out on the couch after another dose of medication) he's come to the conclusion that he is - as always - a Grade A Idiot.

Repression is a skill he considers dabbling in again, mostly because he's just too goddamned exhausted to deal. The medication is draining and Will's already fielded fussy phone calls from Sutcliffe's secretary, promising to come in for a checkup just to get them off his case. He has other things on his mind, and those things are summed up quite easily into one category: Hannibal.

Hannibal, who is apparently not only a sadist, but also believes Will has masochistic leanings and could probably do well with submission.

Will puts his face in his hands as heat creeps insidiously up his neck and he jumps when Winston's tongue finds his chin somehow. Will starts to pet him again, grunting, and darts a glance at the clock. Hannibal will be here soon and Will's too exhausted to clean any more. Any residual dishes and dog hair will just have to be left. He doesn't have the energy to work right now.

* * *

Hannibal sticks with his initial plan preparing something simple and easily transportable - Beef Daube. Of course, the beef is not beef. It's a contribution from a certain Baltimore socialite that thought _their_ hefty contributions should allow them more clout than they deserved. Lesson learned. Once Will had been steered to the guest bedroom, Hannibal chopped onions, celery and carrots. The 'beef' had been cubed and tossed with the vegetables to marinate with spices, brandy and wine over night.

As he goes through each step, Hannibal loses himself in the meticulous artistry of cooking. As the shallots, sugar and water begin to boil he can forget that he allowed Will the privilege to stumble through his home _with_ his shoes on. When he cooks the pancetta, Hannibal doesn't think how, after he'd finished the prep, he roamed back to Will who had passed out. He’d slipped off Will's shoes and essentially tucked him into bed.

He removes the pancetta from the frypan to then cook the button mushrooms, idly thinking on Will's fungal farmer. They had spoken about connections - how Will's mind could connect - and Hannibal, for a moment, feels a sense of foreboding. How long would it take Will to see make the connection, to forcefully remove the mask from Hannibal's face and see him completely?

He observes the sauce beginning to thicken and pushes the concern away. When that day comes, _if_ the outcome is unfavorable, Hannibal knows what he must do. He adds all the elements to the sauce - the beef, vegetables, mushrooms and pancetta - and stirs it, inhaling the savoriness. Hannibal covers the pot and decides that he will visit Will sans tie and vest, like the time he'd fed Will's dogs and taken a look at Will's lures. He'll 'dress down' for Will, so he leaves for Wolf Trap clad in a sky blue button down shirt, navy blue slacks and an oxford blue plaid blazer with a pot of Beef Daube on the passenger seat.

The drive is peaceful and Hannibal makes good time, checking his watch after he parks next to Will's vehicle (he's ten minutes early). Hannibal steels himself for the inevitable assault of canines that he will have to endure. He walks to the door and thankfully the pack of dogs alert Will to his arrival as he’s unable to knock. At least they serve a purpose.

* * *

Max - large, gentle and tri-color - is the one who alerts Will that Hannibal has arrived a few minutes later. Like a cascade effect, the dogs seem to clue in and then Buster rushes excitedly at the door, jumping up against it with wiggling joy. Will makes a small sound in the back of his throat; Buster's going to rush out and get himself hurt one of these days. The smaller the dog, the braver the spirit. Bravery and stupidity also go hand in hand, Will finds.

He yawns wide enough that his jaw cracks and then wearily pushes himself to his feet, casting a slightly judgmental look down at himself. He's wearing his better jeans for all the difference that makes, and his shirt isn't completely drowning him, but the red plaid is still plaid. At least it's buttoned to the top collar, Will reasons. Honestly at this point Hannibal likely doesn't expect anything different.

Will makes his way through the throng of wiggling, excited bodies, and gently directs Buster away with a pointed sound from between his teeth. Max steps back voluntarily but there's a sea of wagging tails and lolling tongues when Will makes it to the front door. He takes a moment to brace himself, trying to shove away the residual uncertainty from the night before, and then opens the door. It strikes him as Buster makes a mad dash between the door frame and Hannibal's legs that Hannibal's never actually been at the house before while Will has been present. Will feels the class difference acutely, particularly as he'd spent the morning in Hannibal's guest bedroom with its soft sheets and clean edges. He sighs, tries not to feel too out of place, and steps aside, directing Buster back into the house with a pointed snap of his fingers.

"Sorry, they're trained, just... excited. You can come in if you want," Will says, but even as he does, he can't help but notice that Hannibal isn't wearing a tie _or_ a vest. It gives him pause, and then he can't help but wonder if Hannibal's dressed down for _him_.

* * *

While he's never been one to want animal companionship, Hannibal isn't cruel to them. As a child, he loved learning. Filled with an insatiable curiosity to discover just how things worked, he can vividly recall performing his first 'autopsy'. Upon finding a dead dog on the estate, he'd dragged down whatever medical books he could find and consulted them (they were not much help as canine anatomy differed greatly, but it was the thought that counted). Admittedly, it was a crude surgery as he didn't have the proper tools, but Mischa had stood in the shadows, pressed to the frame of the shed, large eyes watching her older brother's hand disappear into the animal and cut out organs. Afterward, Hannibal had beckoned her over, pointing out the tumor on the stomach likely contributing to the death of the animal. He'd placed all the organs back inside and stitched up the incision as best he could. Mischa had insisted on a burial, so together they dug into the earth and laid the deceased animal to rest. He can still remember the flowers she arranged on top of the mound, the lavender and shades of blue of the Hepatica Nobilis. That night he had to scrub for quite some time at the blood and dirt caked underneath his fingernails, but he had felt _accomplished_. (There was a time in his life that Hannibal had wanted to be a veterinary physician...)

Upon the door opening, the rush and scent of dogs hits him immediately like a heatwave. It's hardly the most unpleasant of smells, but the appearance of Will looking slightly more rested and slightly uncomfortable has Hannibal feeling better. Hannibal merely smiles politely as Will makes an excuse for the pack's boisterous behavior.

"No doubt they are glad to have you back with them," Hannibal comments, walking inside but mindful of the paws. He definitely doesn't want to be stepping on any of them. "I may have given them a treat when I fed them. Perhaps they remember."

He hands Will the the pot. "This will need to be reheated, if you will." Hands free, Hannibal promptly unties his shoes and steps out of them. He can tell Will has made some effort in cleaning. Interesting. Hannibal doesn't have to walk far to join Will inside the tiny kitchen. He's already nosed around the cramped space on the previous visit and knows everything in it bothers him to some degree.

* * *

"I'm glad to be back with them too," Will admits, and it's clearly the right thing to say. Some of the tension leeches from his shoulders as he looks down at the mass of swarming furry bodies and warm, dark eyes gazing up at him and Hannibal with adoring, excited focus. Buster races around just on the porch, his tail wagging so fast it's hard to make it out, but he seems to be resisting the urge to jump up on Hannibal at least. Will's expression eases into something a little closer to a smile as he steps a little further back so that Hannibal can make his way into the house.

"And... yeah, they tend to remember the- uh. The 'T' word." Will glances at the dogs, as a few of them had looked excitedly at Hannibal at the word 'treat'. Maybe dogs aren't everyone's favorite animals, but Will admires how smart they are.

He reaches out belatedly when Hannibal hands him the pot, taking it and immediately able to smell it despite its container. Will makes a small sound in the back of his throat, softer and appreciative, and the smile he sends Hannibal - while quick - is a little more genuine.

"Yeah, okay. It smells really good." Leaving Hannibal to slip his shoes off, Will whistles absently between his teeth and Buster darts back inside so that the door can be closed. Most of the dogs are behaving, Winston curiously sniffing at Hannibal's shoes before he turns to follow Will into the kitchen. As with most places in the house, there are dog beds and folded blankets placed periodically. Winston settles down comfortably as close to Will as he can, and Will sets the pot on the stove so that he can reach over and start the oven.

Aside from Winston and Buster, the other dogs linger in the living room, though noses are turned to the ceiling as excited scenting happens. They're trained not to beg at the table. Buster soon loses interest but as he goes to play with the others, Zoe - a small white dog with a pronounced underbite - creeps her way into the kitchen to scent at Hannibal's slacks. She's polite about it, so Will doesn't step in and stop her.

"Um. I'm just assuming you meant to reheat this in the oven? If you want to take over, you can. It's not rude. I don't want to ruin your hard work."

* * *

The dogs bring comfort to Will. Will is able to provide and care for them and they in turn are nonjudgmental company. Perhaps even unconditional love if one believed animals _could_ love. Animal companionship could be very positive to those struggling with mental wellness, so Hannibal isn't going to attempt to speak ill about the dogs. Of course, the sheer _number_ could perhaps be addressed given the size of Will's home, but he's not here to make an enemy of Will Graham, not over _his_ own discomfort.

Will's appraisal of the meal smelling good has a small, pleasant smile appear on Hannibal's face as he joins the other man in the tiny kitchen. "I hope it tastes as good as it smells," Hannibal comments. "I endeavored for something hearty but simple." As a little rodent of a dog makes its way over, Hannibal glances down and, thankfully, doesn't let his initial reaction show as the dog sniffs at him. It has a very noticeable underbite - something Will undoubtedly finds _cute._

"The stove top would be more suitable, easier to ensure it's heated evenly throughout," Hannibal suggests. "What's the little one's name?" He inclines his head toward the white dog... and surprises himself even as he lowers himself to a squat and offers a hand out to the dog for it to smell. Oh, the lengths he goes for Will...

* * *

"Oh." Stove top. Will quickly fumbles to turn off the oven before his mistake can be fully realized. He knows Hannibal's likely already seen but he's far too polite to say so. Will fights the urge to rub at his face and instead looks down at his stove top and settles for turning it on a medium heat. Halfway usually works, and Hannibal will undoubtedly fix it if it's wrong. If it burns, Will decides it's entirely Hannibal's fault for leaving this part up to him. He notes belatedly that he _might_ be a little more stressed than he thinks he is. Already he's wondering why he agreed to this.

He's only just set the cover back on the pot when Hannibal's question startles him into turning around. Will looks back at him and then - after a hitched moment - he looks down instead and it feels... _wrong_ , almost, to see Hannibal kneeling down, his slacks creased, hair falling into his face just a little and hand outstretched. Will freezes at the sight but Zoe - thrilled at the attention - wags her tail so hard her whole body wiggles and she eagerly sniffs and snuffles at Hannibal's hand, pausing every few seconds to give it a little lick.

Will just stares until he realizes how fucking impolite he's being. He gives his head a small shake and wishes he could blame it on the damn medication. He still feels heavy and drained. "That's--that's Zoe. She's... typically pretty shy around strangers. I mean, I know you fed them and all - and thank you for that," Will adds, awkwardly, "you didn't have to - but she seems to like you. The um... the vet a few miles down the road got her as a surrender, injured, and she would have been put down. I paid for her jaw to be fixed up. Left her with an underbite but she can still eat and it doesn't affect her..." Will shrugs. "I adopted her."

* * *

It's likely more polite for him to take charge of reheating the meal, but Hannibal wants to allow Will to have a hand in their dinner. It's also Will's home. It's a gesture of Hannibal giving up a measure of control. Will may not see it that way, but Will isn't in the best of conditions right now. Hannibal says nothing as Will makes the necessary changes - turning off the oven to turn on a burner instead. He will, of course, step in if needed, but Will isn't incompetent. He can manage to reheat the Beef Daube if he pays attention and stirs occasionally. That Will is flustered over such a small mistake is... almost endearing to Hannibal. He'd thought Will would be more comfortable in his own environment, but thus far he remains on edge. Even with Will being on the mend and the side effects of the medication, Hannibal knows it's largely _his_ presence that’s giving Will cause for distress.

(Does a small part of him delight in said distress? Yes, of course. Does an even smaller part wish Will _was_ perhaps more at ease around him? ...Yes.)

He immediately notices the surprised look etched on Will's face at his position. Yes, he's squatting down and reaching out to the apparently friendly rodent-dog. He'd prefer to kneel but he doesn't plan on making nice with the dog for too much longer. He listens to the typical sob story.

_Zoe._ Seems fitting for the mongrel of a dog.

"That was very kind of you," Hannibal says as he pets her head gently and redirects his focus to her. "Nice to meet you, Zoe." With that, Hannibal rises and goes to the sink to wash his hands.

* * *

While Will is trying to be polite about Hannibal almost kneeling down on the floor, the desire to just stare at him, at the unfamiliar posture and position is difficult to avoid. Will watches as Hannibal seems to consider Zoe's name and her story and he's honestly surprised that Hannibal seems interested. Maybe he's just being endlessly polite (that's a possibility) but Will still feels his shoulders lose some of their rigid tension as Hannibal reaches out to pet Zoe's head. Then he speaks to her and Will watches her small furry body wiggle in delight with a low, soft whine, and a small smile pulls at his lips unbidden.

"She likes you," he says, even though it should probably be obvious.

"I'll uh... I'll introduce you to the others if you want. Officially, I mean," Will adds as he sees Hannibal stand and go to the sink. For a moment Will wonders if Hannibal is washing his hands because he's touched Zoe and a part of him wants to protest that his dogs are _clean_ , thanks. But then he remembers the pot on the stove, remembers dinner, and withdraws his complaint. Hannibal's likely just being clean before dinner.

"Winston is the one behind us." The dog in question raises his head at being addressed but unlike Zoe - who wiggles excitedly around Will's feet before she makes her way back to the pack in the other room - he merely shuffles his tail against his dog bed and watches, content to be addressed without needing overt attention.

"He's... probably the most well behaved. That's why I don't mind him in the kitchen as much. None of them beg at the table."

* * *

Hannibal muses on his motivation to get closer the dog ( _Zoe_ \- his mind supplies). Was it out of character for him? Likely yes, but he excuses his behavior as an attempt to put Will at ease. He's already proven himself to be willing to be flexible for Will. Hannibal notices that Will _does_ actually relax after witnessing their small bonding scene. It's worth it. Zoe apparently likes him and Hannibal finds that he's not as aghast as he once assumed he'd be at the idea of becoming friendlier with any animal. Being that she's smaller, she likely sheds less. That's a positive.

Hannibal imagines Will would rather speak about his dogs than anything practical such as his health, his thoughts concerning going back to work with Jack or Hannibal's offer... It's not exactly rousing conversation for Hannibal, but he's used to suffering through banalities. Most of his patients are neurotic whiners like Franklin had been. He washes his hands, careful to not scrub at them for longer than Will would deem polite. Hannibal looks over to the Winston-dog. He has less 'presence' than Zoe and Hannibal finds himself slightly curious.

"What's his story then?" Yes, he's in Will Graham's home and they're conversing about dogs.

* * *

If Will is aware that Hannibal is less than engaged, he doesn't let it show. Instead he merely looks over at Winston once Hannibal has finished washing his hands and this time when Will smiles, it's almost immediate. It reaches his eyes even if it is just a warm simmer that speaks of something else. If Hannibal had been looking to put him at ease, asking about his dogs is likely the safest bet. Will doesn't like talking about himself but he _can_ talk about his dogs. He's proud of them. They also have the benefit of not having anything to do with his sickness, going back to work, or Hannibal's... offer the other night. Will immediately refocuses on Winston.

"I found him driving home one night. He wouldn't come with me at first. Had to win over his trust, but it's been worth it." Will gestures to Winston, who looks at him with large brown eyes, almost like he knows what they're talking about. Will smiles, arms folding over his chest. "When the uh... the encephalitis was just getting started, I guess. Back when I was sleepwalking? Winston was there. I woke up on the middle of the highway, no idea where I was, but Winston was there. Just kept nudging my hand until a police cruiser found me and took me back. He's been great. Slept close when I was feverish, woke me up from nightmares... I owe him a lot."

* * *

The smile he receives assures Hannibal that he is making the right choice in focusing their conversation on Will's canine companion club. Hannibal listens to the beginning of yet another sob story of sorts, but it takes a turn when Will shares of his previous struggles and Winston's involvement. Hannibal is pleasantly surprised but let's none of it show. He simply looks from Will to Winston and nods that he is listening.

When Will is finished, Hannibal gives Winston a rare smile. "Then I owe him my gratitude. Looking after his master when I could not." Hannibal says lightly, making his way over to the stove and picking up a stirring spoon he spots nearby. He lifts the lid and gives the stew a cursory stir (maybe he can't let Will be in control of the entire process).

"Hopefully less nightmares and an end to the sleepwalking are to be in your future now."

* * *

Will catches sight of the smile on Hannibal's face and he can't really explain why, but he feels proud. Winston's tail wags slowly, undoubtedly realizing that the conversation - or at least attention - is on him. Will looks at him, at the longer, mottled coat filled with warm browns and reds and his own smile softens a little bit. Hannibal seems like a difficult man to please and while he'd been kind to Zoe, somehow this smile is what really stands out to Will. The feeling of warmth only deepens when Hannibal says what he does - that Winston had looked after him when Hannibal couldn't - and Will ducks his head, feeling an odd mix of warmth and embarrassment.

"That's... yeah. Nightmares are about the same so far. Haven't sleepwalked again since the last time."

He looks at Winston and tries not to feel relieved when Hannibal walks to the stove. Instead Will steps back and - bracing a hand on the wall - he carefully lowers himself down to his knees on the floor, reaching out to stroke his fingers through Winston's fur. Instead of being hyper-excited, Winston merely rises and steps in close, leaning into Will's space as his tail shuffles against the ground. He licks Will's face a few times, clearly pleased, and still clearly trying to make him feel better. If Hannibal can smell the sick on him, Winston probably can too.

"He's a good dog. Loyal. Can't ask for more than that. But... it's not- you know it's not your job to look after me, right?"

* * *

Hannibal is not surprised that the nightmares have remained. He suspects that the encephalitis merely exacerbated whatever conditions were already present within Will. With Jack and the field work, Will's mind had become a breeding ground for dark and fragmented images. While Hannibal enjoys Will in distress, he doesn't want him to drown, no. He will keep Will Graham afloat in the choppy waters and within eyesight, ever ready to throw him a life preserver if needed (as he had done with the encephalitis). But after he's calmed down, Hannibal fully plans on pushing Will back into the water again and again.

He watches Will go to the dog in question and affectionately pet him. Winston isn't as hyper as the others, reciprocating and licking Will's face while wagging its tail happily. A family of strays - that was Will and his dogs. Hannibal isn't disgusted by the interaction and that in and of itself should be a sign that Will is influencing him (softening his edges) but Hannibal doesn't think on it. He simply takes in the sight... and perhaps he can also enjoy Will at ease.

"I don't consider you an obligation, Will," Hannibal states. "I am capable and care, therefore, as you put it, I 'look after you.' Or attempt to, at any rate." He returns to the task of stirring the food and in less than fifteen minutes they're enjoying Beef Daube on a cheap table in Will's kitchen with much less pomp than a typical dinner at Hannibal's own house, but he shows no judgment toward Will.

* * *

That's one thing Will enjoys about Hannibal. For all the man's class and sophistication, never once has he made Will feel like _less_ of a man for his own humble roots and lodgings. Hannibal is a man who probably spends hundreds of dollars on a single bottle of wine whereas Will is fine with a bottle under twenty. He'd come from Europe and Will's from the deep south, his accent only held back by stubbornness and the grace of fucking God. Yet despite this, Hannibal has never looked down on him. He doesn't comment on Will's clothes or his home or his dogs. He doesn't comment on the unkempt stubble or his hair's length, or even how far out into Wolf Trap Will is. More than that? Hannibal seems to enjoy his company. It's one of the best things about him. Eventually, regardless of Will's stress level, Hannibal eventually settles him down.

At the table, he makes a purely indecent sound at that first bite of... whatever this is. Beef something-or-other. The meat all but melts on his tongue and while his palate isn't nearly as refined as Hannibal's, Will can read a lot into why Hannibal had selected _this_ to bring. "Beef stew," Will says softly, the same way he'd labeled Hannibal's Silky-Chicken-Whatever as 'Chicken soup'. He takes another bite and swears it's like an injection of a deeper, settling heat all through his body.

"This is delicious, Hannibal. Thank you," Will adds, darting a small look up at him. He looks so damn out of place dressed to the nines at Will's smaller kitchen table, but Hannibal had put in a lot of effort. The dogs are in the other room, eating their own food, leaving the two of them alone.

Will is about to say more when he remembers the pills. Frowning, he sets his spoon down for a moment, says, "Shit, sorry, just a second," and rises. He's back after walking to the other side of the kitchen and after a few telltale pill-bottle-rattles, Will grimaces as he downs the antibiotic and the steroid, then makes his way back to the table to reward himself with another bite of stew. "I'm... not the best at regular meals so I keep forgetting to take those things."

* * *

Although Hannibal has hosted Baltimore's elite and thrown many lavish dinner parties in his life, he doesn't find eating from mismatched bowls with scratched up spoons to be disheartening. It hardly matters, truthfully. The company is what's important and it's Will who Hannibal wants to be with. His food also tastes delicious. So, he's dressed down a little and put in an effort to show interest with the furry mongrels Will keeps. Will wants to hide away from the darkness here and Hannibal can respect that. He will let Will have a respite, a breather (for he's not ready to be pushed yet).

When Will excuses himself to take his next regimen of medication, Hannibal nods politely. "I may suggest you set an alarm on your mobile to remind you then." Sometimes Will needs help with being an adult. Sometimes it's endearing, other time it is not. This situation is the latter; Hannibal sincerely hopes Will doesn't compromise his own recovery by being absent minded. Before Will has time to reply, Will's mobile is going off. "Feel free to answer that." Hannibal graciously speaks up. It's rude to answer a call while eating, but Hannibal is curious.

* * *

Will's lips thin at the suggestion, not because it isn't a good one, but because he doesn't enjoy taking regular medication. The side effects leave him exhausted and ruin any appetite he has. That he's hungry right now is a miracle, though he puts that down to Hannibal's cooking. A little embarrassed at needing to be told something so basic, Will nods. "Yeah, okay," he reluctantly agrees. He's only just spooned another portion of the stew into his mouth sullenly when his phone goes off. Will freezes and he initially intends to just apologize and go turn his phone off, but Hannibal gives his permission. Will hesitates for a moment, then he nods and stands.

"Thank you. Shit, I can't believe I forgot to turn it off."

He's flustered when he makes his way to the phone and he's silently berating himself when he picks it up. Will has a moment to be stunned, and then immediately something cold settles in his chest. ' _Jack_ ' is flashing at him from the display and Will gives serious thought to letting it go to voicemail.

Hannibal is here. It's rude to even answer, but... there's a whisper of impulse in his head, the lingering expectation that he's saving lives, that people will die without him. Will doesn't hold out hope that this is a courtesy call.

It's not. He answers the phone and there's no greeting, no concern for his well being. Jack tries. Jack always tries, but where Hannibal would have phrased things with concern and a bit of small talk first, Jack launches into the details of a new body found. He ends it with a: 'you good for this?' in a tone of voice that implies _no_ is not an answer he wants to hear. Will's tempted to give it anyway. He wets his lips. "Can I have a few hours?" Will asks, but the way he eases the phone from his ear and then pinches the bridge of his nose likely says it all. Will sighs. "All right. Yeah. Bye."

Will looks at the bottles of medication on the side of the counter and then over at Hannibal. For a moment he feels completely lost in his own head. He feels primed, anxiety churning in his gut, but maybe this is what he needs. If he gets out of his own head and into someone else's, if he's doing _good_ then maybe he won't be so fixated on all the shit in his immediate future. Sutcliffe had just told him to take it easy. The medication will counteract any negativity from stress, surely? A little stress is good now and then...

By far the hardest part is when Will turns back to look at Hannibal sitting there. He glances down almost immediately, guilty, and clears his throat.

"That was Jack," he says, though he doubts he needs to tell Hannibal that. "There's a crime scene. There's... there's no way I should be driving right now. I'm really sorry; I didn't think he'd be calling tonight. Can we take a rain check?" Will looks both guilty and frustrated. He sighs harshly through his nose. "Would... you mind driving me? I can take a cab back or... or something. I'm _not_ making you drive three hours in one night."

* * *

The voice on the other side is none other than Jack Crawford. It's quite apparent given Will's initial reluctance to answer and then the way Will's body fills with tension as the call continues on and Jack, predictably, is Jack (stubborn, unrelenting). Hannibal may not be pushing Will off this time, but good Jack is going to. It seems the respite period is coming to an end. It's time for Will to be thrown to the sharks and see how he fares. There's obviously been a murder and Jack has not so kindly 'requested' Will's assistance. Hannibal finds himself a little irritated that his plans for a quiet evening have been dashed, but Hannibal is going to be accompanying Will to the scene - that much is certain.

Hannibal eats a few more mouthfuls of the Beef Daube, busying himself to allow Will the illusion of privacy to finish up the conversation. When Will hangs up, Hannibal says nothing, simply waiting for Will to come to him and explain. Will looks predictably guilty and bothered - it's a nice look on him and Hannibal merely inclines his head and listens as Will works his way sharing the situation.

"There will always be crime scenes, Will. You're supposed to be resting," Hannibal points out. This is all for show. Will's already made up his mind, but Hannibal must play his part. "But as I'm certain that I will be unable to change your mind, of course I will drive you and stay with you until you're done. Those are my conditions." Hannibal stands. "I imagine Jack will want you on your way immediately?"

* * *

Hannibal's chiding is blessedly kind, but Will still frowns tightly. Hannibal had driven all the way out here, wasted a good hour, and now what? He drives back and doesn't even get to eat? Will wants to be pissed at Jack but he knows he'd agreed. He wants this on some level, wants to return to normalcy, wants to prove to himself that Georgia had been wrong. That they _have_ found the problem, that he _is_ getting treatment. That he _is_ better. So when Hannibal lays his terms down, Will opens his mouth to protest, pauses, and then closes his mouth again with a small grimace.

"...Fine," he says quietly, "but I don't want you too close to the scene. It's not necessarily pleasant from what Jack tells me. Um... I'll be set in a few minutes, if you can save whatever is left of dinner. Just going to change and check on the dogs."

Will doesn't ask what Hannibal does with dinner but he's kind of expecting to see it in the fridge later. Hannibal is gracious as they drive and while Will doesn't want to discuss the case, he eventually tells Hannibal what he'd been told. He gives Hannibal the address Jack had said to meet them in, and Will fidgets uncomfortably, guiltily, until the sound of softer classical music fills the car. He looks to the radio, then to Hannibal (who looks impassive) and finally, feeling more settled, he looks back out of the window. The drive is actually pretty comfortable, and while he'd not had a lot to eat at dinner, apparently the Bentley registers as _safe_ enough to his exhausted mind. Will drifts off somewhere between the border of Maryland and the crime scene, and it isn't until the car comes to a stop that he sluggishly stirs again.

Will isn't sure if the sudden cut of the engine is what wakes him, or if Hannibal has touched him. He thinks he hears voices (outside, or inside?) and a low, shuddering breath, and just for a second there's a faded, musty smell in the car. Everything is a mix for a moment, earthen and dark, but then the dream breaks and he gets his bearings. Stretching slowly, Will casts Hannibal a sleepy glance, his head feeling like it weighs a million pounds.

"We're here?" He asks, his voice rough, but given the flashing lights and the very visible police tape outside of the periodic floodlights, Will already has his answer. He doesn't notice the faint pattering of rain (that explains the voices and the breathing) until he's managed to sit himself up but he already knows forensics were likely on the tarps first thing. Trenches dug, water controlled, Will feels the heavy weight in his stomach that usually accompanies a crime scene. He takes a deep breath and lets it out.

"All right," he says, and slips out of the car, pulling the collar of his jacket up against the colder rain. It won't take long for Jack to find him.

* * *

Hannibal drives them toward Elk Neck State Forest on the I-95 N. Will is tired and is eventually lulled into a sleep with the help of Debussy filling the Bentley. Hannibal wonders if the sleep will be restful or plagued by dreams and nightmares. Hannibal dreams rarely and has fewer nightmares yet. For a moment he looks over at his sleeping passenger and wonders what it would be like to live in such fear of closing your eyes and _imagining_.

In less than two hours Hannibal is at the Arboretum's parking area and pulling up next to other law enforcement vehicles. When Will rouses, Hannibal confirms his suspicions, although he hardly needs to. "Yes, we're here." His voice is soft and he doesn't spend time attempting to give Will any sort of pep talk. Will looks resolute - a man on a mission - and Hannibal will make sure he doesn't drown. He grabs a charcoal gray overcoat from the backseat and exits the car. He slips the coat on and makes his way around to Will.

Before Will can attempt to deter him, Hannibal can spot Jack waving them over and talking to one of the local cops, no doubt explaining their presence. Hannibal has no visitor badge, but being friends with Jack and Will is more than enough.

"Will. Doctor Lecter. Not going to waste anymore time on pleasantries. Let's get started," Jack begins in his no-nonsense voice. Hannibal nods and says nothing. The three of them walk together and the other officials clear a path like the parting of the Red Sea for Moses. Jack has always had a commanding presence.

"We've ID'ed the body as a Philippa Darrow of Wilmington. Twenty-one years of age. Caucasian. Lacerations and bruising found all over her body. Her tongue and eyes have been removed, but not as trophies as they were left by the body."

"The killer saw the need to both silence and blind her," Hannibal muses. Until that particular mention, Hannibal hadn't been interested in the murder. It might hold some promise, but he doubts it.

An Asian woman then comes up beside Will, adding on: "Her hands were bound in front of her and her legs tied at the knees... Oh, hey Will." She gives Will a cursory look over. Obviously the woman is fairly comfortable with him as she gives him a playful elbow to the side. (Hannibal doesn't know how he feels about this observation.) "You look pretty rough, but it's nice to see you up and at it. Nothing says, 'get well soon' like jumping right back into a case."

* * *

To his credit, Will does try and get Hannibal to stay behind the tape. When that doesn't happen - when Jack waves them both over - Will grimaces but doesn't argue. Hannibal can take care of himself but one of these days Will worries that he'll see something that actually does shake him. This isn't Hannibal's world, and surgeon or not, human cruelty is a lot different from an operating table. Even so, Will can't deny the comfort he feels by having Hannibal as a buffer. He stays close as they walk to Jack and while Jack is still abrupt, Hannibal remaining unruffled helps Will stay calm.

They walk past the police tape and officials part rank before them to let them pass. Will listens to Jack as they walk, reaching up to rub the sleep from his eyes as he focuses on not letting the mild nausea and dizziness from the medication fuck with him like this. He digests the information and looks over to where a very pointed tarp has been set up in order to hide the body from view. Will can see the outline of her hair now and the pit in his stomach grows, but he's seen worse. This is human cruelty, but it's not a fucking totem pole of it. Will nods tiredly to Jack but his posture does relax a little as Beverly steps over.

"Hi, Beverly," Will says, and isn't surprised at the light nudge to his side. Against his will, he finds himself smiling tiredly at her. "Yeah. I feel pretty rough, but I'll manage." A thought occurs to him a moment after he takes a step towards the body and then he glances back from Beverly to Hannibal and back again.

Right. Manners. "Do you two know each other?" No, of course not. Will rubs at his face and gestures at Hannibal. "Beverly, this is Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Hannibal, this is Special Agent Beverly Katz. Are Zeller and Price around?" Will asks, looking a little weary at the very thought. Zeller doesn't like him and he doesn't like Zeller.

* * *

Once again, Hannibal is stepping into Will Graham's world. Behind the police tape, officials and techs scramble around to make sense of the act of violence, but Hannibal feels calm amidst their nervous energy. Hannibal _is_ calm. The rain helps bring alive the mingling scents of the deciduous and evergreen trees and the soft soil under their feet. It reminds him of another lush green place, but he focuses on staying near Will. He's not overly concerned with the specifics of the case. Will's marvelous mind will fill in any missing lines and shading, it will splash color on the canvas and create a work of art.

Hannibal has never witnessed the phenomenon before. Yes, this little outing will once again prove to be educational and more entertaining than a quiet evening with Will gazing happily at his dogs. (No rest for the wicked, for wickedness was delightful.) Hannibal plans on treating Jack next time he dined.

When the introduction is made, Hannibal gives his best practiced smile to the woman. "Very nice to meet you Special Agent Katz." All politeness, a hand extending outward (but he will be keeping an eye on this one).

Before she has any chance to respond, Jack is snapping, "Save the pleasantries for later, people."

"You heard the man," Beverly replies with a shrug. It's apparent she's comfortable around Jack Crawford.

From Will's expression, Zeller, Price or possibly both, bother Will in some way. Hannibal will be keeping a lookout for that as well. Perhaps delving into Will's work relationships would be prudent for the next session. When the four of them arrive at the corpse, Hannibal alters his expression to show mild shock. It's all brutality with no finesse and he's not impressed. A pedestrian kill.

* * *

Pedestrian kill indeed. Will is silent on the walk over to the tarp currently protecting the body from the elements. As he walks, he notices small details. The copse of trees is closed in rather than out in the open. Silent. Secure. Intimate. There's no showcasing here. Removal of eyes and tongue or not, their killer isn't looking to make a statement. Not in the way the Ripper does. This is no tableau, but perhaps that's for the best. Will doesn't think he could handle looking at the Ripper's work right now, not when he's already feeling so exhausted.

Philippa Darrow of Wilmington is a sad sight. Will's focus narrows in, the surrounding chatter lessening into a softer white noise as he stops near her. Distantly he can hear Jack speaking - possibly to Hannibal, possibly to him - but Will isn't paying attention. The body is bruised and beaten, attacks focusing on the face. Personal. Will slides his gaze down her body, to her nearly-naked form, the constriction wounds around her wrists. He's only just beginning to draw breath, to _see_ , when suddenly a shape slides in front of him and Will's focus shatters back into an overly loud reality, making him jolt backwards a step against Hannibal's chest.

"...telling you, I don't even know why we were called in for this," Zeller - the man who had stepped in front of Will - is saying as he addresses his colleague. "She's almost naked, tied up. No repeat pattern, why are we even on this? This should be for the locals."

"Not _everything_ is a sex thing," Price chimes in, glancing over at the others as they approach. He lifts a hand in greeting to Will, who tightly nods back, and then Price stands up, already stepping back. "Besides, it's only half of the picture. How do you explain the eyes and the tongue?"

"Bad roleplay," Zeller deadpans back, but before he can continue, Jack's voice barks out.

"Everyone clear out!" Jack's voice leaves no room for argument. Will still flinches, and when Jack turns to him, he averts his gaze back down to Philippa. "The floor's yours, Will. Do your thing. We'll be over there." He indicates an area behind the tape, waits for Will to nod, and then leads the others off. Will doesn't watch them go.

Instead, battling back the idle flare of nerves over the memory of the last time he'd done this, Will takes a long, slow breath to center himself and looks at the scene before him. He won't wake up with blood on his hands this time. Won't wake up at Hannibal's. Hannibal is _here..._ Shit, Hannibal is here. The thought lingers and Will shifts, disquieted, for he'd caught Hannibal's look of shock and he really doesn't want him seeing this. But Jack is expecting a lead and Will is apparently the easiest horse to saddle up. He takes another deep breath of the forest, holds it, and his eyes slide closed.

The pendulum swings and in his mind's eye, he allows his imagination to bleed out. Philippa's wounds revert and she jerks up into a kneeling position unnaturally, her hands pressed in supplication before her, her blue eyes wide and tearful, her knees scraped raw by the pine needles. Will rewinds until every moment is pristine, all the way down to her whimpers, and then he simply lets himself go. Intimate. Secluded. Personal. Eyes and tongue, stripped bare, beaten...

The pendulum comes to a stop and in his mind, Will opens his eyes.

_'I've beaten you and bound you. It's nothing you don't deserve. You know what you've done.'_ Will watches Philippa twist in her bonds, eyes teary, begging. _'You're sorry now, but you weren't before. You weren't sorry when you stabbed me in the back.'_

Will walks a slow circle around her in his mind and his fingers close over the handle of a hunting knife. In the real world, his hand flexes over nothing. ' _I trusted you and you betrayed me. It was between us. Just us, no one else. You saw it and you told, and I'll make sure you never get to tell anyone ever again.'_

The first blow lands and Will's shoulder aches with the impact he doesn't actually lash out with, and from there it goes downhill. A struggle, an assault, screaming and pleading and the quick flash of a blade. Screeches as his knife carves out her eyes, sobbing and blood, and begging that then gets overwhelming and so he fixes it too. Before he knows it, he's on his knees, prying her mouth open, and sawing her tongue out and everything is wrong. It's supposed to be a lesson, supposed to be a threat, and yet now the rage is pulsing hot and acrid in his chest and the screaming reaches a fevered pitch and the rage crashes into fear.

He hyperventilates and drops the knife, his hands soaked in blood as Philippa chokes and gurgles on her own blood, and Will doesn't even realize what has happened. In his mind, he's watching a friend bleed out and sorrow and anguish and fear and rage pulse thick in his blood. In reality, over the past few seconds, he'd dropped to his knees in front of the corpse, mud staining his jeans. He'd started to reach out, expression creased in rage, and then something else had overtaken it. He doesn't feel himself hyperventilating, doesn't feel the rocks pressing into his knees or the icy cold air, doesn't see the way he's wrenched himself away from her to curl in on himself. All he sees are bloody hands and shining blades and regret and _See..._

A warm, broad muzzle presses against his shoulder, a deep breath that races through every fiber of his being, and Will tenses because _no_ , no it's supposed to be gone, it's supposed to be--

Hannibal. Not the stag. It's Hannibal, with a heavy hand on his shoulder and Will doesn't even register the low, trembling sound he makes. He merely turns and hisses, " _Please,"_ with a shaking desperation. He can't help himself, but Hannibal will know what to do. Hannibal always knows what to do.

* * *

Hannibal assumes it's either Price or Zeller that pop out and have Will accidentally backing up into him. Hannibal steadies Will with a gentle hand on his shoulder. The two men seem to be bickering and soon after their appearances Hannibal figures out just who Zeller is because the plucky one actually _acknowledges_ Will and seems pleasant. Zeller, on the other hand, had been the one insert himself into Will's space with no apology. Terribly rude.

When Jack predictably reins everyone in, Hannibal finds himself ushered away so they can give Will space and fortunately for him, not much privacy for Will. He stands silently and tucks his hands in his coat pockets, completely at ease. Hannibal is between Jack and Beverly and when she leans in to whisper, Hannibal angles himself toward her. "So what kind of doctor are you, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Psychiatry now, but I was a surgeon before," Hannibal explains quietly. Whenever he gives this piece of information, most people look impressed or surprised, but Beverly Katz is not most people: she simply gives him an appraising look and a nod. "Alright then."

"Quiet down," Jack mutters. Hannibal wonders if Jack is normally this tense, or if wrangling Will out here has him on edge. The thing is, Will _shouldn't_ be working, and Jack _should_ know better.

Hannibal is more than content to return his attention back to his true interest. He watches Will carefully. He can only see his back, so whatever flicker of emotions crop up, they will be hidden. Even so, it's obvious when Will begins, for his posture and presence change. No longer is he hunched and smaller. Will stands up and then begins to walk like a predator circling their prey. Hannibal thinks he sees Will's hand twitch, as if gripping an object - likely the weapon that detached the tongue and eyes. And then it's a flurry of movements - of punches thrown and desperation - Will falls to his knees and Hannibal can see the sawing motion follow. Hannibal wonders if she had a deceitful tongue and that's why she lost it.

"Is he normally this lively?" Hannibal asks Jack.

"No, Doctor, he isn't..." Jack looks concerned. This _is_ turning out to be most interesting.

Will is a performer, losing himself in his craft, but Hannibal wishes to be the sole audience member. That he has to share this moment irritates him deeply, but his face displays nothing but concern for Will. He imagines Will must feel incredibly exposed - first he must connect and experience such a gruesome event - then to be watched... More vulnerability, but this is Will's bitter pill to swallow, for if he feels he can help he must.

Hannibal doesn't know what's changed, but it's quite clear Will is agitated and breaking apart. When Will suddenly reaches out to the _actual_ body, Jack makes to intervene. Hannibal takes a step forward, cutting him off. "I'll collect him. And Jack? There _is_ a reason he shouldn't be returning to work yet," Hannibal says.

He makes his way over to Will and calls out his name as he approaches. Hannibal comes up behind up and places a firm hand on Will's shoulder. "Will, I'm here."

Will, thankfully, is cognizant of him, his head turning and giving a hissed ' _please'_. Who is Hannibal to refuse such a lovely plea?

"As you wish," Hannibal murmurs. He steps between the crumpled corpse and gets his hands underneath Will's armpits and carefully pulls him up to his feet. Will is aware enough that he isn't dead weight.

"Come now," he instructs and with an arm around Will's lower back, Hannibal leads Will from the crowd. He can hear Jack bellowing to give them room. Hannibal stops when they're about twenty feet away from the spectacle Will has created.

They're standing out in the open, light rain falling on them and Hannibal allows himself to give Will a fond smile when they stop. It was a beautiful performance, after all.

"You're with me Will, you're safe," he soothes as he pulls Will into his chest, his other hand coming to the nape of Will's neck. Hannibal's fingers work their way into damp hair and _pull_. Pain should help ground Will.

* * *

Everything is sensory overload. Will's world has fallen into a tumultuous mix of colors and emotions and vivid mental images. He aches with terror and betrayal and rage, his pulse pounding thick and hot blood over his senses. She'd deserved it. She'd deserved every fucking second of it and he's _not_ in the blame for it. She is. She'd told. She'd _told_ and this is only fair. This is the only secret she'll ever be able to truly keep because she's treacherous and untrustworthy and--

Hannibal. Will feels Hannibal's hands slide under his arms, broad and firm and the dichotomy of his thoughts is agonizing. Hannibal lifts him and Will awkwardly struggles to help, shaking his head hard, trying to bleed the _other_ influence from his mind but it's like an all-encompassing blanket over his senses. One moment it's _I trusted you_ and the next he's aching for Hannibal to ground him. Will isn't aware of the time it takes to clear out the scene, has no fucking idea where Hannibal leads him. He doesn't hear Jack and he's honestly hard-pressed to feel the rain on his skin despite the fact they've moved from the tarp. Will doesn't feel the eyes on them; his world is all Philippa and betrayal and Hannibal.

' _You're with me Will, you're safe_.' The words have Will making a small sound in the back of his throat, thin and weak because he needs the reminder but it feels like smoke through his fingers.

Then Hannibal draws him in closer and Will feels warmth under his hands. With his senses misfiring, he feels Hannibal's steady pulse against his cheek - when had he tucked his face in against Hannibal's neck? - and his hands are firm against him. He can hear Hannibal's breathing but Will can't yet react, his body a trembling mess of intense emotion that doesn't belong to him. He feels sick with it, but before he can fully lose himself to the mindset that isn't his, a hand slides in through his hair at the nape of his neck and _pulls_.

The pain is sudden and sharp. Will feels each pinch to his nape and his scalp as Hannibal pulls his hair, and for a moment he wants nothing more than to escape the sharpness of it. Then he realizes his focus has narrowed in on the pain, his lips parting in a soft gasp, expression pinched and against all odds, it's _helpful_. The pain is sharp and grounding and slides like a blanket of finality through his body. Philippa's gurgling fades to a soft choke in his mind and instead Will can hear his pulse in his ears.

Like a kitten picked up by the nape, he feels an odd calm slide through him, his limbs going from tense and agonized to feeling a little heavy. Suddenly he can breathe, though it is a little heavier. Will doesn't care about sadism or whether or not Hannibal's sadism makes him uncaring. Clearly it doesn't. He doesn't think about submission or masochism. He simply focuses on the tug of Hannibal's fingers in his hair and his own hands grip Hannibal's jacket tightly.

"Harder," he finally says, his voice thin, "Hannibal, please."

* * *

Hannibal would love nothing more than to actually _not_ help Will - at least not immediately. He would love to observe Will's fragmented reality, to have a front row seat for such a spectacular show. He would enjoy the panic and fear, withhold his comforting words and touch, and watch as Will's imagination burn and spread like a forest fire. Hannibal would consider himself a very fortunate man to behold such a scene, but now is not the time. He must play the role of the helpful doctor and strengthen the bond of trust Will _does_ have toward him. The fire will be contained, the life preserver thrown out to Will. Perhaps another time he can indulge in such a thing.

The rain is gentle, but Hannibal is firm and real for Will. Will nestles his face against his neck and Hannibal pulls his head away slightly to allow Will room to settle. Will shakes like a leaf, delicate and fragile, and yet Hannibal pushes down the urge to hurt him. He doesn't want Will broken beyond repair. Will can lose pieces, he can chip and crack, but Hannibal has no designs on Will shattering. Hannibal _does_ plan on being the one to carefully reassemble Will when the time comes, and perhaps Will may lose a piece or two of himself in the process, but Hannibal knows what can fill in the empty spaces.

His fingers pulls at sweat and rain damp hair. Hannibal recognizes the immediate instinct to escape it, but then Will, predictably, settles into it. He gasps - a beautiful sound - and Hannibal's lips curve into a pleased smile. Slowly, some tension eases. Will reaches out and fists clutch onto Hannibal's jacket. This is the closest they've been. Undoubtedly they are being watched and judged, but Hannibal cares not. He's resigned himself into saving this poor creature from the violent waves. Is it amusing or appropriate that he must be violent himself, to reel Will back in with pain?

When the request for _harder_ comes, Hannibal hums. It's tempting to see what Will would do if he _didn't_ comply, but he stamps down that urge. His hand momentarily releases its hold and moves into longer hair before gripping and pulling harder.

"There. I have you, Will," Hannibal says, his voice calm and warm. "You're safe with me. We're in the Elk Neck State Forest. It's Friday. It's nearing ten in the evening.

* * *

Will has never enjoyed pain before. He's not even sure he can say he enjoys it now but it is supremely grounding in a time where it's all he needs. Hannibal's hand is the only lifeline he has right now. Hannibal's hand and the scent of an over-rich cologne and something else that might be fabric softener or soap. His senses are sharp but Will doesn't care _what_ he's smelling, only that it stays and overshadows the scent of blood thick in his nose. He doesn't register anything beyond Hannibal and his own panic even though the latter is still strong. He can feel shades of the killer, of the panic and rage and loss thick in his chest. But so too, does Hannibal's grip register.

It's only distantly that he realizes what he's asked for but shame has no place in the face of desperation. For a terrifying moment he thinks Hannibal is going to deny him, but then the fingers move into longer hair and when Hannibal pulls this time, the sharpness of it makes Will grunt, makes him awkwardly lift up almost on his toes to ease the pressure before remembering it's what he wants. It takes a moment for the pain to work, for Will to feel Hannibal's fingers and the prickle of pain over his senses sharply enough that the pounding of his own pulse fades in his ears. Little by little Hannibal's voice begins to register and Will is able to focus on details.

Safe. Elk Neck State Forest. Friday. Ten. He repeats every word in his mind as the growing calm from pain begins to register. Will's breathing is rough and he grounds himself on Hannibal's jacket, undoubtedly wrinkling the fabric. But little by little as seconds pass into well over three minutes, Will begins to calm again. He wrestles the black shadows and tendrils of violence back inside his mind - rewinds the Jack-in-the-box until the next time someone turns the crank - and when Will finally hears the slightly strained near-whine he's been making on every fifth-or-so exhale, he realizes he's grounded enough to care.

Shaking, his grip begins to ease as he forcibly pulls himself back together. While he still feels ready to shake apart, the knowledge that they're not alone begins to bother him. Self-conscious, shaken, still reeling, Will swallows, wets his lips, and then gives Hannibal a tight nod that makes the pull in his hair a little worse.

"...Friday. Ten. Elk...Elk Neck State Forest," Will swallows again, then adds, "Will Graham. I want to leave," he says shakily, apparently forgetting his promise not to make Hannibal drive him. "Thank you. I just... need to leave."

* * *

The pain should help ground Will in the present reality. Provided what he is experiencing isn't too strong, the stimulus should distract efficiently and be able to pull him back. Amidst the smells of nature and wet earth, Hannibal can scent Will's fear and distress. It's certainly much nicer than the aftershave with a ship on its bottle and he would love nothing more than to bask in it. He also wishes he could push Will away in order to see the panicked expression he surely wears, maybe even force them to make eye contact, but Hannibal is not here to push. Jack has pushed and Will had continued that momentum and pushed himself over. And now they're here with Hannibal trying to contain the damage and collect the debris of Will Graham.

While it's been enjoyable to bear witness to Will losing himself and now experience the aftershocks together, Hannibal knows it's not meant to last. He is resigned to the knowledge that he must save Will from himself. He also is putting on a show, for Hannibal can see the law officials glancing their way (although Jack is trying his best to keep them from not). So, he does as Will had requested and pulls _harder,_ he gives Will _more_... (And he wonders if there is anything he could deny after hearing such an exquisite request fall from Will's lips.)

Hannibal closes his eyes and the rain continues to fall as they hold each other. Will gradually relaxes and Hannibal lets himself enjoy this moment that was created by necessity. Even though Will isn't exactly being quiet, for he's letting out the most delightful of whines, it's still peaceful for Hannibal. It's been awhile since he's had a lover... perhaps it's time he takes one, for he finds himself genuinely enjoying Will grasping onto him. (It's times like this that Hannibal is reminded, much to his dismay, of just how _human_ he really is.)

When Will nods and repeats the words Hannibal had said mere minutes ago, Hannibal's eyes open. This current show is coming to an end. "Then we will leave, Will," Hannibal murmurs as he takes a step away from Will, his arm falling from Will's back and letting his hand ease its grip on wet hair. Hannibal relocates that hand to Will's shoulder and gives it a squeeze. "You should inform Jack of our intentions first."

* * *

A few months ago, Will had been building a new cabinet for the ground-floor bathroom. He'd secured almost everything properly using screws and nails and hot glue. It had taken him a few hours and his focus had waned, and he hadn't realized that a drop of glue had stuck fast to one of his fingers until suddenly it had stuck tight to his palm. He'd thought nothing of it, shrugging and pulling hard, and he'd been unprepared for the sheer brutal agony of flesh ripping before the glue had lost its hold.

That feeling - the shocked, breathless agony - is very similar to the way Will feels when Hannibal takes a step away. He feels hysterically like Hannibal's presence should make a sound as it draws away to acknowledge that it had been a real thing. The heavy rumble of Velcro, perhaps, or the shatter of glass. Something to herald his absence. But instead all Will has is the feeling of being unbalanced and set afloat without a mooring line. So when Hannibal fixes that by setting a hand on his shoulder, Will abortively swallows a few times and then nods. He has control of himself enough to get the fuck out of here.

He doesn't look up at Hannibal, merely nods again. "Yeah, okay," he says, and - trying to ignore the flare of humiliation at the knowledge that Jack and the others had likely _seen_ him break - Will grudgingly turns to where he can feel the judging gazes originating from and marches his way over with Hannibal an omnipresent, comforting shadow.

"They knew her," Will manages once Jack has stepped in closer. Will makes sure to cut in before Jack can say anything, and Will keeps his gaze around Jack's chin. He wonders how awful he looks, because despite Jack's earlier bluster, he says nothing now. If Will looks, he can see the rare pinch of Jack's chin that tells him he's frowning. Will swallows and reaches up with shaking hands to rub his face. "This wasn't a tableau, this was... intimate. They were friends - or lovers - and she'd seen something. No, more than that, she'd _told_ someone... something. Look into her friends and relationships. Past relationships. Do a criminal background check on all of them. And look for reports made to the police in the last week. Chances are if she told a secret like this, you'll find more cockroaches under the house." Will shivers, rubbing at his face harder until he sees spots. "She was carried here. Look into men. He-- _they_ didn't mean to. They loved her. She betrayed them. Whoever it is will be grieving."

Will doesn't register anything else. He doesn't know if Jack is the one to send him along, or if Hannibal speaks up and gently requests that he take Will somewhere else. He doesn't hear Price and Zeller murmuring or see Beverly's expression. He feels lingering gazes like tar plastered to his skin, hot and burning and _wrong_ , but the next thing he's consciously aware of is Hannibal's touch leaving him as he climbs into the car. It's necessary but Will hates the separation almost as much as he hates the knowledge that he needs the touch.

He buckles himself in, mindless of the grime on his shoes and mud caked onto the seat of his pants and his knees, and he immediately wraps his arms tightly around himself as his scalp throbs and his mind whirls. He's humiliated, but he just wants to get the fuck out of here. Somewhere else, _anywhere_ else. Will swallows with a click.

"Drive," he requests, "I don't care where. Just not here."

* * *

Hannibal doesn't wish their closeness to be coming to an end, but it's unavoidable. He knows he shouldn't be cross at Will for bringing about the closure either. It's quite obvious that, once grounded and calmed down, Will's own awareness of the situation came flooding back in. Following that awareness came judgment and humiliation. Yes, Will had a melt down. Yes, many people witnessed it - Hannibal included. Yes, Hannibal had came to his rescue and sequestered Will away. They had embraced, Hannibal had held him closely and pulled his hair. Furthermore, Will had _asked_ for more pain and said _please._ Twice. Given their distance, the finer details may not have been visible (it may have appeared that Hannibal simply had a hand buried in his hair).

Will, much to Hannibal's vexation, _looks_ upset as Hannibal separates from him. Hannibal, too, feels the distance, but he had assumed Will would want the distance, jumping to try and maintain his appearance. Men didn't like showing weakness in front of others, especially other men. Men often didn't touch other men either. Hannibal is aware that heterosexual males are threatened by such displays. However, Will's distress seems to ease a little when Hannibal touches his shoulder and they once again have a point of connection.

They walk back to the others silently, Hannibal allowing Will to lead the way and trailing a step or two behind. He'll allow Will to take care of this - to hopefully give his findings and then excuse them. He is not going to coddle Will. And Hannibal is pleased for they now have a wealth of interesting avenues to explore during their next few sessions. Will does manage, sharing his revelations while rubbing at his face. Hannibal lets himself look mildly disturbed by the notion of the grieving killer feeling betrayed and loving the girl... Love. It was pitiful. Good Jack would find this pedestrian killer and his life would be ruined because he had let himself get emotional. Because he had trusted and loved. Pedestrian, indeed.

When it's apparent Will is done speaking, Hannibal does acquiesce and decide to help Will in the end. It takes little effort on his part to step in and explain that he is taking Will home to rest. Doctor's orders and all. Hannibal ushers Will away once more, his hand grasped around Will's forearm in guidance. It's like Will is his child almost. Hannibal supposes it's not the worst analogy to make. Will had a tantrum and Hannibal intervened like a parent and now Will wouldn't get to play with his friends at the park... He doesn't share this thought. No doubt Will wouldn't find it amusing.

Will is muddy, their shoes are muddy, but it cannot be helped. They split once more as Hannibal unlocks his Bentley and they each climb in. Hannibal removes his coat and sets it in the backseat. He makes sure to turn on the heat for Will. He nods, "Of course, Will. We're returning to Wolf Trap," he explains and he reverses the vehicle and they're on their way.

Will looks frazzled and while it could be fun to try and get him talking, Hannibal opts not to. He'll behave and try and keep Will afloat. As minutes pass and Will doesn't appear to fare any better, Hannibal warns, "I'm going to touch you, Will." Hannibal's right hand reaches out to connect once more with Will's head. Hannibal doesn't pull this time, he merely rubs at Will's scalp.

"It's alright. _You_ are alright." As much as he wants to observe, he largely keeps himself focused ahead. It _is_ raining and dark; it would be dreadful to get into an accident because he had sought to comfort his child.

* * *

The Bentley is an unfamiliar environment to Will but he still knows this is a place he's fallen asleep in twice. This place, surrounded by the sound of the engine and the smell of the upholstery is _safe_. So why doesn't it feel safe?

Will's thoughts are a slowly-declining whir that leave him disconnected. Under him, he can sense the car moving. Time is a concept he doesn't fully grasp, and all there is in the world is the warmth of Hannibal's car, the tight grip of his own hands, and the compression of the seat belt against him. He breathes as slowly as he can in an effort to bring himself back. He uses everything he knows how to do, from mindfulness that shatters around him like glass to Hannibal's grounding exercises. His hands itch for a pen, for while the clock is relatively new, it still brings Will some measure of comfort. It's proof he's taking control, if nothing else. There's no control to be had here.

It wasn't this bad with Georgia. When he'd woken up with bloodied hands and stumbled from the crime scene, _convinced_ to the bottom of his soul that he'd been responsible, he'd lapsed. He'd lost himself. But he'd come back. Why is _this_ lingering so hard? Why does it feel like something is shoving at his head, shoving him _out_ of it?

Simple. Georgia hadn't cared as much. He'd felt her fear, her flare of betrayal, but it hadn't been this severe. She'd believed herself dead. No responsibility for the dead. This is not simply fear. It's betrayal and rage and Will can't contain it all. He doesn't hear Hannibal's warning, but when the touch slides suddenly into his hair, it does help. Will focuses on the slow stroke through his hair like a lifeline and he closes his eyes tight, breathes hard, and tries to remind himself about Hannibal. Hannibal is his friend. Hannibal cares about him. But Hannibal is seeing this. Hannibal's seeing what a fucking mess he can be. Hannibal could be judging, or disappointed, or sick and tired of dealing with him, and it'll end in fucking _betrayal, always goddamn betrayal, I trusted you_ \--

Will's breath is ragged when he finally gives his head an abortive shake and reaches a hand out sharply for the door handle. "S-stop, stop, pull over," he insists somewhat frantically, and whether Hannibal pulls over on his own volition or because Will had nearly managed to get the door open, Will doesn't know. He doesn't care. Instead once the car has stopped, he makes a small lunge for the door and then is uncomfortably reminded of the seatbelt. He struggles with it for a moment, then scrambles out of the car and drags in deep breaths of the cold night air, crouched against the car for as long as it takes for Hannibal to put it in park or turn it off or whatever it is he's done.

Thoughts whirling, jaw clenched so tight that his head is pounding, Will fusses and fidgets for a long moment before he stands again and begins to pace. He makes short, deliberate movements as he reaches up and rubs hard at his face, breathing sharper.

"I can't-- it's not working, I can usually disconnect but I _can't--"_ Will babbles, partly to himself, maybe partly to Hannibal or Hobbs ( _See?_ ) or the fucking stag, wherever it is, "--I _can't_ get rid of him." He isn't even aware of apparently choosing a gender. Jack isn't here to listen now.

"He didn't _mean to_ , it was supposed to be a lesson. She'd done it before. Last warning didn't stick, so he made her remember this one, but it went too far. But she _deserved_ it," Will adds, and there's an edge to his voice that isn't his own. "He gave her everything, he _loved_ her, she knew what would happen if she told our secret and she did it anyway. I _trusted_ her!"

* * *

Through peripheral vision and the occasional glances, Hannibal can see Will close his eyes and _attempt_ to relax. Hannibal's fingers alternate between rubbing and scratching at Will's scalp as best he can given the angle and that he's _driving_. He hopes this reassuring touch can be enough to calm Will, a meager balm to spread over cracked edges. While it would thrill him to witness Will spiral, they are in a moving car and if Will acts violently it could be dangerous.

As much as he would like to _know_ , to inquire what is going on within Will's mind, Hannibal remains quiet. He turns the music back on, but it's on a low volume and barely audible with the windshield wipers going. Despite his best efforts, Hannibal is aware that Will's breathing is growing more frantic. And then suddenly Will is simply agitated, shaking his head and demanding the car be pulled over. Hannibal complies, signalling and doing just that. Before he can even put the vehicle into park, Will is pushing the door open, fighting with the seat belt, and jumping out. Hannibal sighs and turns on the hazard lights. He forgoes slipping on his jacket, knowing that he needs to get to Will. Hannibal ensures that no other vehicles are coming when he slips out and makes his way around the car to Will.

Will has begun to pace and babble. Hannibal frowns and approaches carefully, trying his best to make sense of Will's frantic speech. From what he can gather, Will is having a difficult time shaking off the pedestrian killer. At first he seems to at least be separate from the identity, but then there's a tonal shift and Will changes pronouns with his last statement:

_'I trusted her.'_

As intriguing as it would be to watch another performance, Hannibal knows Will needs rest. They could revisit this later once Will is more recovered. (He hopes they do.)

"Well, now you're going to have to trust me," Hannibal says blandly. Admittedly the comment is more for himself and he gives no other warning as he advances on Will. He's quick and grabs roughly on Will's shoulders pushing his back against the side of the car. It's crude manhandling, but right now Will needs to be contained. Hannibal pins him with his chest, his hands coming to grab at Will's wrists and gripping them tightly to prevent any retaliation. Will is no match for him. He lifts Will's hands above his head and holds them against the wet roof of the car. Hannibal leans in close so Will's head is against the side of his own for he remembers Will had seemed to calm being close like this.

"Your name is Will Graham," Hannibal begins softly, but firmly into Will's ear. "You live in Wolf Trap, Virginia. You have many dogs, but Winston is your newest family member and he's been very good to you. I met Zoe earlier tonight." When Will's fight begins to wane, Hannibal frees up a hand by taking both of Will's wrists in the other. He then goes for Will's wet curls again and yanks Will's head into his shoulder. The rain continues lightly, the air crisp, but there's warmth between their bodies.

"I'm here with you, Will. You're safe and I have you."

* * *

He'd been so terrified, his guilt and regret compiling into a great roaring creature as Philippa had choked on her own blood, asphyxiating in great gouts of it. She'd deserved every part of it but he hadn't _meant_ to. She'd done more to him; it had been _her_ fault, this whole thing had been _her_ fault.

Except it isn't. Will's mind feels cracked and split, fragmented into multiple parts that hardly even make up his general shape anymore. He doesn't know what he needs; he just knows he can't handle this. This is Hobbs all over again, Hobbs showing up in Stammets' grave, Hobbs in the firing range, Hobbs clapping in the auditorium. Will can't see this killer but he doesn't have to. He can feel him, feel a shadow of his presence, the mania, the loss, the rage, the _fear_ , and he keeps pacing jerkily as he shakes in his own skin. He doesn't recognize the rain falling, or why it's probably a bad idea to pace on the side of the road where other cars could easily come by. His shoes slide on gravel and mud but he doesn't feel it.

But he does feel Hannibal. He _does_ hear his statement (' _Well, now you're going to have to trust me_ ') because it filters through the false persona in his head, drilling down through the root of them both. Will tenses but then it hardly matters because hands find his shoulders roughly and before he can protest or lash out - and his arms begin to raise to do just that - he finds himself shoved roughly back against the car. Will's mind flares in panic from a personality that isn't his and then splits into a thorough confusion in his own mind because he doesn't understand what's going on. One moment he'd been pacing and now he can feel cold metal against his back and Hannibal is crowding in against him. His chest is broad and Will feels it crush against his own and he shifts, twisting, struggling with rougher sounds in the back of his throat. He's like a caged animal as Hannibal grabs his wrists and pins them to the car and later Will is going to wonder just how Hannibal is this _strong..._

Then Hannibal leans in, his head close, and something else filters into Will's mind. Hannibal's cologne is distinctive and out of place in the mind that isn't his. Its hold weakens simply because this doesn't _fit_ and then Hannibal's voice breaks through the haze. Will shivers, a full-body thing as bits and pieces start to filter back.

Hannibal. It's Hannibal. Hannibal's hands pinning his own, Hannibal's chest bracketing him in, Hannibal's strength and scent and voice. Will makes a small sound, rougher and strained, something that might have been a half-sob were he not so split, and he feels the lifeline drift over his fingers. He grabs at it immediately and focuses everything he is on Hannibal Lecter.

It doesn't take long for Hannibal's steady reminders to stab home. Will repeats his name in his mind, repeats his home, thinks about _Winston_ and some of the fight begins to leave him. He feels Hannibal gather his wrists together but doesn't fight it, and when fingers curl in his hair again, Will draws in a sharper breath, hitched, and his focus narrows in on that.

With the addition of the pain, Hannibal's voice is suddenly clearer, his intention obvious. Will doesn't realize he's shaking despite the warmth. He merely takes the olive branch and lets Hannibal ground him. Will pulls a few times, testing the hold Hannibal has on his wrists, on his hair, but he finds them immobile. Part of him thinks he _should_ be concerned to be pinned so easily but this is Hannibal. Hannibal, who might be a sadist but who is also his friend, who's _helping_ , who saved his fucking life. Will's breathing is rougher, ragged, but bit by bit, it begins to slow from its frantic hyperventilation. But like this, when bits of reality begin to piece back, no one is left staring at him. Jack and the others aren't here and so Will's first reaction isn't shame. Instead he recognizes that he _needs_ this, and despite his own embarrassment over that need, he finally finds his voice.

"F-fuck... I'm sorry," he says, shaky. Hannibal shouldn't need to do this; this is Will's goddamned fault. He should have told Jack to fuck off. But as he hadn't... "Can you... like before?" Harder, more, keeping him steady.

* * *

It certainly had been a much more invigorating evening than Hannibal originally anticipated. Then again, the standard had been set rather low with dogs and dinner. And while he is slightly concerned about Will's health, perhaps Will needed the wake up call, to fall in and create a large enough splash that Jack would now allow him adequate time to rest and recuperate. Both Jack and Will could be idiots... That silly _righteousness_ that drove them, that need to help no matter the cost. Perhaps their dedication could be applauded, but they also were fools. Jack hadn't needed Will to perform a divination tonight - the murder was far from elegant or complicated; Jack had simply begun to rely far too heavily on Will's gift. The FBI would greedily use Will Graham up - to suck him dry - and then spit him out when he could no longer be of any assistance. That wouldn’t happen on Hannibal’s watch.

Initially Will struggles and tries to fight, but Hannibal is unrelenting. When his words start to have an effect, Will essentially allows him to hold both his wrists with one hand. This is a good sign. He wonders what is the greater help - his words or the pain? Perhaps next time he would try one without the other and observe the results. Will shudders and tests the hold again, but it's not out of a panic to escape. Hannibal feels a low thrum of pleasure at Will's acceptance. Will knows what he needs and he demonstrates it by asking: _'Can you... like before?'_

Yes, Hannibal can and would. Oh, there's still a desire to deny the request, to see what Will would do when refused. Will hadn't said please after all, but Hannibal behaves and does what needs to be done. (Doesn't he always?) His fingers tighten in wet curls and he pulls with the intention for Will to truly feel it. He pulls with the intention to give Will what he needs - pain by his hand.

"It's better, is it not?" Hannibal asks and he moves his mouth closer to the shell of Will's ear. "Just focus on my voice, on the sting." He whispers, his voice calm and even. "On my body against yours... The car behind you... You're safe and I have you. You are here with me. You are present in this moment."

* * *

Will Graham is not a man confident enough to ask for assistance when he needs it. When confronted with someone asking if they can help him, his impulse is always to back down, to get out of the situation as quickly as he can. Confrontations mean eye contact and eye contact means distractions and people forcing themselves into his space. That he even has it in him to ask Hannibal for more without completely falling apart at the seams is huge. As always, there's a small twist of panic over whether or not Hannibal will comply; Will knows this is basically unprecedented and the last time they'd talked about this, it had been to the tune of Will dismissing it. He knows he'll eventually need to eat his words, but for now Hannibal is merely helping him, grounding him, and Will clings to every second of it like a drowning man suddenly offered a life preserver.

The hold in his hair tightens and once again Will draws in a sharper breath at it being _too much_. It's painful, sparking a sensation along his nerves, making him ache, but it's so fucking grounding. So distracted by the pain is he that the phantom of panic and terror is forcibly kicked back and Will is left focusing on the point of contact. Hannibal doesn't hold his punches. Does he ever? No, Will asks for _more_ and Hannibal doesn't tentatively circumvent hurting him. He does it intentionally, pulling hard enough that Will wants to rise up and negate pressure but Hannibal's hands pinning his wrists down uncomfortably put a stop to it. The entire position is uncomfortable and vulnerable but Will doesn't feel hunted or mocked. He just _feels_ , and he feels like _himself_ the longer the moment goes on.

Shuddering, his voice tight in small sounds of effort every other breath, Will closes his eyes and focuses. He's aimless with his pinpoint focus, everything narrowed down to Hannibal's hand in his hair. Then Hannibal changes things. His hold doesn't ease but suddenly his voice is louder. Will's breath hitches at the sudden proximity and at the words Hannibal chooses. It wants to snap that he doesn't _need_ direction, but being reminded to focus on Hannibal is helpful. He tries to swallow three times before he manages, and Will makes a small, tighter sound to show he's heard.

As Hannibal speaks, he feels lighter, feels his focus split. The panic is present in the back of his mind but it's overshadowed by Hannibal's presence. Will breathes unsteadily but finds himself matching each breath to the rise and fall of Hannibal's chest. Hannibal's grip is strong, his voice low, his body solid and _real_ and not a shade of a threat. There's an odd comfort in someone helping him. Before, it's always been him struggling to regain himself on his own. Alcohol, playing with his dogs until he's too tired to do anything else, losing himself in repairing boat motors and carpentry... it's all temporary and if he's already in a spiral, the only thing that helps is a good four-or-more dogs climbing on him and reminding him where he is.

Hannibal's better at it. Every time the panic begins to grow, Hannibal seems to catch it before it can go anywhere. Will must tense or give some indication and then suddenly there's more weight against him, or Hannibal shifts his hold enough to hurt anew, and always, _always_ the voice in Will's ear, lower, soothing, a constant reminder that he's with _Hannibal_ , that he's not at the crime scene, not around Jack. It's just them. And little by little, Will begins to relax, begins to shiver and let his mind narrow in on Hannibal. And as he does, something else slides through him. Something lower and hotter that he doesn't even focus on. It's not Hannibal so it doesn't matter, but the low voice in his ear, the physical contact, the _press_ of Hannibal's body against his own... though Will doesn't consciously register it yet, there's no denying that he is starting to get hard.

* * *

Hannibal knows that asking for help is not a common activity in Will's day to day life. Perhaps that's why he doesn't deny Will what he requests. They're not officially in any arrangement where manners are _necessary,_ so he's given Will more, yanked harder and created a delicious strain. It's a natural response to try and seek to ease the pressure, for Will to lift up, but Will, to Hannibal's pleasure, does not. Will takes it beautifully, soft but tight sounds working out of him.

Hannibal would love nothing more than to have his hold abandon Will's wrists and wrap around his throat instead. To squeeze and hear Will's frantic attempts to gasp for breath. He'd savor the panic and confusion on Will's face - perhaps even recreate the scene in a drawing (that he would later burn). He would like to observe Will in various states of duress - on the cusp of a denied orgasm perhaps, shaking and desperate enough to beg - blushing furiously from humiliation of some kind - bleeding and broken, but defiant... There are many things Hannibal would revel in bringing about. There's even the urge to maneuver Will into killing again, to see him enact violence and be present for the aftershock.

Eventually, Will's panic seems to lessen. He matches Hannibal's breathing and Hannibal can feel their chests rise and fall together. It's almost beautiful. This moment is delicate and yet charged for Hannibal has to fight back the yearning to see how many times he could wind Will up and then pacify him. But he doesn't want to break Will. Will isn't _just_ an interesting toy. Will holds potential, possibility.

So, Hannibal reads and adjusts to Will when needed. If Will tenses or starts to fidget, Hannibal pushes against him or changes the angle of his hand in Will's hair. He speaks in soothing tones, talking of Will's dogs, of the leaves turning colors. Gradually, Will seems to give in. The rain continues its light descent and Hannibal wonders idly if the heavens are crying for Will Graham - for this fragile creature that Hannibal wishes to stain and corrupt. But as the moment continues, Hannibal can feel the emergence of Will's arousal against his leg and that _is_ most interesting.

Hannibal shifts and gets his thigh in between Will's legs. He really can't help it when he nudges against the beginning erection. This is a different kind of pushing.

"You're growing aroused, Will," Hannibal states and he tugs Will's head back, elongating his throat in the process. Hannibal moves his mouth and places a chaste kiss to Will's adam's apple. "Should I stop?"

* * *

Will doesn't register that anything has changed. His focus is on Hannibal's fingers in his hair and the press of his body. There's an odd relaxation drawn out by Hannibal's hand in his hair, by the way he twists and pulls and keeps Will flying high on sensation. It doesn't make sense to him, why pain should center him so much but he isn't about to look too deeply into it. He's just so _fucking_ relieved when the panic dims to a low rumble in the back of his mind, so soft that it's hard to hear. He drifts on the peace he almost never finds in his own mind, so disordered and chaotic with thoughts and feelings that aren't his own.

So when Hannibal's thigh suddenly presses between his legs, the sensation is enough to rip a startled, pleasured gasp from between his lips. Will's eyes fly open in shock and he shudders, a low sound escaping his throat. His hands curl against nothing from where they're pressed to the roof of the car and while he does cast about in confusion for a moment, Hannibal's voice is still close and his body is even closer. Before he can even begin to think on the fact that he's hard _again_ , Hannibal's hand tugs Will's head back sharply and this time Will _feels_ the arousal curl low and hot in his stomach. His hips twitch instinctively and -- right, Hannibal's leg is... he's close and asking--

"Fuck," Will bites out as he feels the press of lips against his throat. He remembers his embarrassment the evening before, but distantly, as if looking at it through someone else's eyes. He should say yes, should stop this before he embarrasses himself again, but Hannibal is close and _asking..._ Will swallows, the bob of his adam's apple pressing against Hannibal's lips and he closes his eyes. He's wildly conflicted for a moment. Then he shakes his head slightly and humiliation and arousal curl through him in equal measure. No. He doesn't want Hannibal to stop.

* * *

This is more than Hannibal could have hoped for. First, Will's lovely performance afforded him the chance to come to the rescue and prove his worth as both friend and professional. But to be granted another opportunity to deepen his hooks into Will? To cultivate Will's trust and dependence further? Jack really does deserve a nice treat next time he dined. Now with Will's arousal making its appearance, Hannibal has much more ammunition. Will likes the pain, or likes the submission. Likely both. Will may not be sexually attracted to him - that's not important - but Will trusts him enough to be needy.

The surprised reaction from Will is a sheer delight to behold. He's calmed Will, pulled him back, but that doesn't mean Hannibal won't destroy the cobbled together refuge. Hannibal would like to play now. (One distress traded in for another...)

Will curses. His hips move and Hannibal graciously provides his thigh as a means to find pleasure. He's not aroused (although he _could_ be if he let himself). Nevertheless, this should prove to be insightful and fun and he hasn't had much fun as of late... Hannibal feels the answer - Will shaking his head - but that won't do.

"Hmm..." He'd like to chide but that may be too much for Will to take right now. Instead, Hannibal blatantly rubs his thigh against Will's trapped erection. There can be no disguising his intent to _not_   'help' this particular problem. "You're going to have to vocally answer me, Will. Consent is important," Hannibal murmurs against Will's throat. He would like to lick and bite this throat as well.

"Do you want me to stop... Or do you want me to keep touching you, keep pushing you, until you find your release? You will likely feel much better after such a thing..." He stops moving his thigh as he waits for Will's response.

* * *

For a few moments after Will gives his answer, he's stunned at his own response. He should be horrified, he thinks, or should at least have declined, but everything outside of Hannibal's touch and his own arousal feels hazy. Will almost feels drunk on the relaxation Hannibal had cultivated within him, but with each beat of his heart and with every second he grows harder in his jeans, that relaxation begins to ease, replaced with something hotter, visceral, and _physical_. Humiliation clouds the edges and in the back of his mind he's well aware of where they are and that anyone could see them. But despite a little thread of panic, the thought only makes him harder.

(He doesn't _want_ to be seen; he hates it when people look at him, but the _risk_ of it is... thrilling, for some reason.)

Hannibal's hum is soft against his throat and Will pulls a little against the grip in his hair simply to feel it, to let the pain take away the lingering uncertainty around this. Then suddenly he doesn't need it because Hannibal presses his thigh closer and rubs against his clothed dick blatantly. Will arches, his breath hitching, and even though his eyes are closed, he does what he can to turn his face away as he pushes against Hannibal's thigh.

People don't touch Will. Not like this. It's been... God, he can't even remember how long. He's never been sexually attracted to Hannibal before, though it's not like he can't see why someone would be. Will's just never been into guys before. Right now, though, none of that seems to matter. Hannibal's grip is strong, his thigh is perfectly placed, and his voice, when he speaks, sends heat twisting through Will's stomach. The issue is that Hannibal _stops_. Will doesn't want to answer verbally and for a moment he considers just calling this off on sheer principle alone. But that Hannibal doesn't want to take advantage is... admirable. Will knows he's vulnerable. That Hannibal _isn't_ taking advantage means something. Unfortunately it doesn't make the words any easier to admit to. Will's struggle is visible.

"I... I don't want you to stop," he manages, grateful for the dark as his face burns. "Please don't stop."

* * *

Jack should have known better than to call, Will should have known better than to accept and Hannibal should know better than to play. And yet Hannibal finds himself drawn in and not minding all that much. This is an itch he's _choosing_ to scratch. That is all. It's a whim, an indulgence. There will likely be ramifications - consequences - but Hannibal will deal with them when the time comes. He'll apologize (he is only human, after all). He'll normalize Will's response and then they will move on and likely be better behaved going forward. But for now? Hannibal will play. He'll inhale the scent of Will's arousal and conflict like an aromatic delicacy. He’ll let himself revel in Will debasing himself. But then Hannibal stops and makes his request.

And Will's struggle ensues. Will is battling against his pride, against his better reason, but he does give into temptation and answers vocally. Hannibal allows a rare smile to break free. He presses his mouth against a pale damp throat - almost a kiss if his lips weren't curved. He moves his head away, pulling Will's own head forward so he can whisper once more into Will's ear.

"Then I'm not going to stop," Hannibal murmurs in a low voice. It's a promise. He pushes his thigh against Will's erection again. Will _is_ quite aroused. Hannibal brings his mouth flush against Will's ear as he continues. "I'm not going to stop until you orgasm, Will. I'm going to hold you here until you do... Now, please keep your hands clasped behind your head. If you do not, I may be more inclined to stop. Do you understand?"

Instruction given, Hannibal releases Will's wrists. This is the first test of obedience.

* * *

Will doesn't know what the fuck he's doing, but it's hard to piece together why that's a bad thing. For some reason the hand in his hair makes the rest of the moment seem muted. Or... no, not muted, but out of his control, and not in an unpleasant way. The word _submission_ nudges insistently at the back of his mind and Will shies away from the thought but it's getting difficult to deny it when he finds himself so focused on Hannibal's touch and suggestion. He doesn't see Hannibal's smile because he has his head turned away and his eyes closed, but he feels the curve of it against his throat in a way that makes his pulse pick up. Then it spikes even more as Hannibal pulls at his hair again, yanking his head closer carefully in a way that strains and is uncomfortable but also increases Will's focus exponentially.

He's never found a male voice particularly appealing before, but Hannibal's is soft and silken and soothing. When it deepens and his thigh suddenly pushes against him again, Will tenses. The deepening of Hannibal's voice is.. appealing, and then he finds himself groaning tightly when Hannibal's lips press against his ear. It's startlingly intimate but when the _words_ register, a hot twisting shudder slides through him. He's never envisioned Hannibal talking like this before, but somehow the clinical way he speaks coupled with the force is even more arousing. Will's breathing is unsteady, his heart pounding, but he nods as best as he can just the same.

Then, remembering Hannibal seems to want him to talk, he adds, "Yeah, I understand." If he moves his hands, Hannibal might stop.

Fuck, why is this hot? Will doesn't know, but when Hannibal releases his wrists, Will flounders only for a moment before the command really registers, then he shifts well enough to clasp his hands behind his head. It puts a little strain on his shoulder but like fuck if he cares when Hannibal is pressed against him. Will bites the inside of his lip as he rolls his hips, seeking contact, rubbing himself against Hannibal's thigh with a lower, tight moan.

* * *

This is an act of submission on Will's part - or at least an act of desperation. Whatever Will wants to label it as, it truly doesn't matter. Hannibal will gladly receive this gift, for it _is_ a gift to see this normally feisty, guarded creature be brought to his knees - in a manner of speaking. Hannibal would enjoy seeing Will on his knees. He can picture it in his mind so clearly: they would be in his office, Hannibal sitting in his chair, ready for another conversation, but they wouldn't be having a conversation, for Will wouldn't be taking up his usual spot. No. Will would be on his knees, kneeling by Hannibal's feet. Perhaps Hannibal would reach out and pet his head like a dog. Perhaps he'd ignore Will in favor of reading on his tablet, just to see how Will reacted to it. The possibilities were endless.

But Hannibal doesn't let himself become caught up in his imagined fantasy. He has Will _here_ with him and Will is receptive to his touch, breathing quicker, giving sound to his pleasure and initially nodding, but then vocalizing his answer. This bodes well and the first test is passed as Will obeys and clasps his hands behind his head. It's always thrilling to watch and experience obedience and submission in another, but knowing how Will had fought against it last night... it's especially rewarding for Hannibal now.

"Good, Will," Hannibal praises. "You're perfect like this. Beautiful, desperate, giving into desire despite your hesitations..." He licks up the shell of Will's ear. Hannibal's free hand joins his other, pulling on wet hair and moving his head away to try and make out Will's expression. His eyes have mostly adjusted to the dark.

"I _could_ touch you, I could slip my hand in between our bodies and rub your erection through your pants... or should I make you rut against me like a dog? What do you want, Will?"

* * *

This is the most Hannibal has ever touched him. It's not the most Will has ever been touched, but it's the most focused touch he's ever had. Despite the confusing haze over his senses, he can't help but feel like every single move Hannibal makes has been planned out a multitude of steps ahead. There's no uncertainty, no question. Hannibal merely moves with purpose Will can't even fathom. It feels _good_ to have him so close, to be blanketed in and controlled (and fuck, he doesn't want to think about this right now, so he doesn't; Hannibal's hand in his hair makes it easier to drop off unwanted thoughts). He merely keeps his hands clasped behind his head because it's a simple request. It doesn't matter that there's no reason for it aside from the fact Hannibal wants him to do this. Given what Hannibal has done for him this evening alone, this seems paltry by comparison.

There is a hot, embarrassing twist of something deep in Will's chest at Hannibal's praise. A part of him wants to recoil from it, wants to deny it, because he's not fucking _beautiful_ and no one's ever called him that before. It leaves him tripping over something he can't comprehend. Beautiful. Perfect. Desperate... these are not words people use to describe Will Graham. Will frowns, relieved that the night is dark, but before he can spiral into something awkward and defensive, Hannibal's-- Hannibal's tongue - yeah, that's his tongue - licks hot up the shell of his ear and Will's breath hitches. He fights Hannibal's attempt to turn his head back only a bit but Hannibal is strong, and the tug to his hair makes him gasp and suddenly he doesn't fucking care that this is weird. That prickle of grounding sensation is back. The haze feels good; this feels good. Will's eyes open just enough to look down between them. Unlike Hannibal he can't see a thing yet.

He can hear, instead. Even caught like this, shivering against Hannibal's Bentley (fuck, it probably costs more than his house and Hannibal has pinned him against it like it hardly matters) Hannibal's words send a low slide of heat through him. His dick is hard, tenting his jeans as much as it can, and every time Hannibal moves his thigh, Will feels like chasing it. Does he want to get himself off, though? Does he want to fuck against Hannibal's leg? Fuck... the thought is humiliating and it does appeal, but he can't. Not if Hannibal is watching him debase himself. If Hannibal's involved... that seems safer.

"Your hand," he says after a second, clearly struggling with the idea of _asking_. "I want... fuck, don't make me say it."

* * *

It should perhaps feel stranger to be this physical with Will. Their progression had been quick and reckless, even Hannibal could see it, but Will is needy and consenting and Hannibal doesn't believe this will do any irreparable damage to Will. Hannibal thinks Will is likely stronger than he gives himself credit for. Will is resilient. He _can_ be pushed and stretched without breaking. Hannibal isn't exactly in a position to break Will and get away with it anyway. His friendship with Jack Crawford and Alana Bloom restrict him in this. He must tread carefully with Will and after this, he will drive Will home and give him time to process the events of the evening. In their next session, they will deal with this evening - with the fallout at the crime scene and with this event unfolding now (whatever the ending may be). Hannibal will reframe the troubling parts and Will will likely nod begrudgingly and prefer to sweep it under the rug in his mind. That's fine with Hannibal. (However, it's not what he necessary _prefers_ to happen.)

There's not much doubt or concern within Hannibal. They may be hastily moving into this - from grounding and safety into the sexual - but he's read the signs and he's confident in handling Will. From his reactions, Will is not only aroused by the pain, but from the psychological aspects this situation presents. Of course there's an element of submission: Will is consenting and obeying his requests, essentially giving up control. In testing his strength, Will is aware that Hannibal is capable of truly _forcing_ him. There is also the possibility of being caught, but Hannibal figures it's only the _threat_ that is exciting. Hannibal can relate.

With Hannibal's question, another struggle blooms in Will, for it's rather apparent Will finds it embarrassing to have to _ask_ or _tell_ Hannibal anything in this moment. It's positively delightful. Hannibal has no plans on letting Will be absent from this, he won't tolerate Will being passive. Will may find it easier to take his pleasure against Hannibal's leg, to not have Hannibal - a man - touch him sexually, but Hannibal had used the phrase 'rut against me like a dog' deliberately. It implies a great degree of shamelessness and desperation.

But Will chooses his hand, requesting Hannibal's active involvement. Hannibal's smile is in his eyes as he regards Will. "I haven't _made_ you do anything, Will," Hannibal points out lightly; it's not entirely true for he _had_ restrained him (but that was for Will's own good. This... This is for Hannibal.) "I may ask or give you an instruction, but whether or not you comply is up to you... But I wonder..." Hannibal removes his right hand from Will's hair and shifts back a few inches to allow it to slip between them. His finger traces over the line of Will's erection, barely any contact, but he can feel heat and hardness underneath Will's jeans.

"Does a part of you find the thought of me making you do a particular activity - of _forcing_ _you_ \- to be stimulating?" Emphasizing his point, Hannibal sharply pulls Will's head to the side.

* * *

Will is too lost in sensation to even begin to suspect Hannibal of stacking the deck against him. Hannibal might be a sadist (and Will can see the evidence now) but he's not the type of sadist Will is accustomed to in his work for Jack. Hannibal is controlled and maybe likes seeing Will in pain, but he isn't pushing past Will's limits. He isn't making him do anything that would _really_ hurt him, and while he does push and imply with his words, Will finds himself confused at how much he likes it. He feels humiliated at the implication he'd rut against Hannibal like a dog and the humiliation makes his face burn, but that heat sinks lower too. Maybe it's just because this is _Hannibal_ talking like this, and Will's fairly certain he never has before, or maybe... maybe he's a lot more fucked up than he thought.

Or maybe Will's still flying erratically on what had happened at the crime scene and he's looking for anything he can to bring himself back down. If it's the way one of Hannibal's hands eases from his hair and moves between them, maybe that's okay. His focus narrows in on that hand, his attention somewhat split between the grounding hand remaining in his hair and the way Hannibal's free hand eases down. There's hardly a whisper of touch against him, but the second Hannibal's finger teases along the outline of his dick, Will's hips press forward, his voice catching in a softer, needier sound.

But not even the hand in his hair can distract him from Hannibal's question. If Will's face had been hot before, it practically burns now. He stills, caught off guard at the implication, but just as he manages to gasp out a soft, "What the _fuck_ ," Hannibal emphasizes his point.

The sharp movement of Hannibal's hand in his hair makes him cry out. It's rougher, hitched, his neck protesting as tendons stand out at the strain, but even through the flood of indignation and outrage that accompanies it, heat rushes straight to his cock. His breathing is rougher, panted, and Will can feel his bangs sticking to his forehead. Whether it's from the rain or sweat not even he knows.

"S- _stimulating?_ N-- what the hell kind of a question is that?" Will demands. "I'm not a fucking deviant, Hannibal."

* * *

Introducing his fingers to Will's arousal brings forth a lovely sound and a greedy thrust from Will. Yes, Will would appear to be quite touch starved. There are many questions Hannibal _could_ ask Will. Undoubtedly he's selected a rather risque question, but Hannibal _is_ curious and more importantly, interested in how Will reacts to the implication. If he wants to satisfy that curiosity, he must ask it.

It's more communication for Will - something Will isn't terribly fond of in this heated moment - but he will talk and he will answer. Or Hannibal will stop. It's as simple as that. Hannibal hasn't said as much, but it's been implied that Will must speak and Hannibal has no qualms with introducing another rule if he needs to.

His question is met with an exclamation and crass language. Yes, he's shocked Will and as indignant as Will may try to be, Hannibal feels him only harden more.

"You didn't say 'no' Will," Hannibal states, careful to keep his voice neutral. "And I feel how aroused your penis is. It's much harder _now_ than before." Hannibal's hand cups Will's erection and rubs his palm against the denim in slow but firm motions. "You're no deviant. There's nothing wrong with a fantasy such as that - sexual fantasies are healthy - provided both parties are consenting and there are safeguards in place." Hannibal suddenly loosens his hold in Will's hair, choosing to brush his fingers through the wet strands almost tenderly.

* * *

Will has visited so many scenes, has experienced broken victims firsthand after being caught up in something exactly like Hannibal had suggested. Well... no, not exactly like he'd suggested. Will squirms, torn between a humiliated indignation and the pull of Hannibal's fingers in his hair and the firm press to his dick. Arousal skips through him, centering hot and low under Hannibal's hand and the anger - for some fucking reason - only makes it better. Will has a hard time getting out of his own head after a crime scene; he doesn't touch himself often, and when he can, it's rare he's able to get off unless the scene had been by a sexual sadist and then he feels disgusting directly after. So this - the sheer level of his arousal so soon after Philippa - is a confusing mix and mess. All he knows is that Hannibal has implied something taboo and he _should_ want to wrench away. A part of him does.

But not all of him. There's a disproportionate part that is caught in Hannibal's touch, shaking at the idea, and despite his protests, Hannibal's voice is so fucking calm and controlled. A part of him wants to wreck that calm, to make him emote _somehow,_ but Hannibal has once again gathered control around himself and he makes Will's hesitation sound so... normal. Will wants to argue that there's nothing normal about wanting someone to _force_ him because he's never so much as thought it before. Although under Hannibal's touch, with the firm press of his hand and the way it pulls soft, reluctant sounds of desperation from Will's throat regardless of his anger, maybe he _does_ actually want that...

Hannibal's observations seem to think so. His dick is harder and Hannibal is right. He hadn't said 'no'. Fuck.

Will shifts against the car, and the conflict of impulse and desire mount until he gives serious thought to unclasping his hands. But just as he's tangled himself in his own uncertainty, Hannibal's touch eases and instead of a harsh yank, his fingers are softer, soothing, and Will shivers with a quieter sound, leaning subconsciously into it. It is, not surprisingly, exactly what he needs to bring him back to sensation, and to facing something he might not want to. Hannibal's probably seen countless sexual sadists - the horrible kind - has probably seen _real_ ill intent before. If he says a fantasy like that isn't wrong... Will swallows past his own reluctance and nods once, uncertainly.

"I don't... I don't know. Maybe? I don't know why." Will's breathing hitches at a particular rub from Hannibal's hand and he arches his hips into it. "Hannibal... Please."

* * *

Hannibal's not in the business of being concerned about what's taboo and what's socially acceptable. He has no doubt that Will would likely be aghast if he knew certain salacious activities Hannibal had dabbled in - with a consenting partner, of course. It is always fascinating what a person can derive pleasure from, be it humiliation or pain or degradation. Who was he to judge one's proclivity? He is a sadist, although he derives no sexual pleasure from his killings and cannibalism. While he finds himself mentally stimulated from this current scene, Hannibal is in control of himself. He doesn't let himself be lost to the natural high of power and involvement in Will's distress (for seeing distress and _causing_ distress are two different elements).

So, if Will is aroused by pain, by the loss of control, by the possible embarrassment of _desiring_ and _enjoying_ such things, Hannibal is more than willing to indulge and be supportive. This may be the only time Will is vulnerable enough to allow such an occurrence. Hannibal would be a fool to _not_ push and explore. He will give this gift to Will - a proverbial 'first time' experience.

Will may be angry and bothered by the insinuation, but he's also aroused and Hannibal's hand and attention push out needy sounds. Hannibal's explanation either pacifies or confuses Will, it matters not. His brushes through Will's hair and at the plea, Hannibal presses the side of his face against Will's, his mouth near Will's ear once more. Despite the rain, Will's face is hot with embarrassment.

"It's okay, Will, I have you," Hannibal murmurs, his own eyes sliding shut. He does feel a bit like a parent. Odd. (There is a flicker, a whisper in his mind that he actually _wants_ to offer comfort...)

"I'll give you what you need. I'll keep touching you and I won't stop until you find your release." A threat and promise. Hannibal illustrates just that, his hand rubbing more fervently at Will's erection. He _could_ take Will's cock out, but ejaculating in one's slacks holds an aspect of humiliation. Will's stubble is grating, but that's Will himself.

"I want you to be a good boy and come for me."

* * *

The rain around them is no heavier than it had been earlier but like this, pinned by Hannibal's body and his words against the side of the Bentley, Will can feel heat crawling insidiously through him. Sweat breaks out on his forehead and he can feel it pressing into his shirt in the back. Maybe the rain has just seeped through his jacket, but Will's breathing feels heavier, his muscles trembling as Hannibal's hand cups his cock and rubs. The sensation is muted through layers of fabric but it's still _Hannibal's hand_ curling around the outline of his dick, Hannibal's hand touching him intimately and knowing how he feels, and Hannibal's voice a low, tempting slide over Will's senses. His breathing is ragged, his hips unsteadily rocking forward when he can, and when Hannibal leans in and presses his cheek to Will's, his voice low in promise, Will curses roughly under his breath. The promise of care feels stifling and after the last few weeks, he _aches_ for it.

He's not sure if Hannibal's words are a promise or a threat. That he'll keep touching him until he finds his release... Will feels a hot twist of uncertainty deep within and groans desperately, grinding into the sudden pressure against his dick, but even as he does so, a small thread of worry slides through him. The crime scene is fresh in his mind and getting hard is fine, but finding the mindset he needs in order to come is another matter entirely. What if he _can't?_   What then? The doubt flickers enough to concern him but Will's focus is still entirely on Hannibal, on the pointed, purposeful strokes through his jeans. Each breath is rough, his muscles trembling, and a soft litany of curses fall from his lips the longer Hannibal goes. Will closes his eyes, pushing, seeking, and his voice breaks on a soft whine when he feels that barrier begin to push back.

So he's not expecting the spike of arousal when Hannibal tells him to come _for him_. The words - good boy - twist hot through him, his hips stuttering, and Will's next curse is all desperation as he grinds quick and hard into the touch of Hannibal's hand. It's good. It's better than anything Will has had in fucking _years_ (and isn't _that_ depressing...) but something is still holding him back. He curses, desperate.

"Hannibal... Hannibal, fuck, I want to. I just... I don't know if I..." Will's hands grip each other tight and he closes his eyes so hard he sees spots.

* * *

Even though he assumes this will be the only time they will partake in such an intimate act, Hannibal will fondly recall this experience. Despite the rain being light, they've been out long enough to become soaked. Wet clothing sticks to their skin - not exactly pleasant - but it's another layer of sensation. Will's body is tense, strung out on pleasure and shuddering against his own. Will's arms have remained raised, his hands clasped behind his head - a sublime display of willingness and submission - as he's pinned to the Bentley. Each forward movement of Will's hips is Will seeking pleasure and it's gratifying. He can make out hissed curses from Will. Such vulgar language... Hannibal ought to wash out that mouth with soap. It's a delightful thought.

But as delightful a thought as that may be, Hannibal finds that punishing and testing Will in such a way fades. He knows it will be a struggle for Will to achieve orgasm. Will may be desperate, but he's also experiencing a mental backlash from falling apart at the crime scene as well as being in the midst of recovering from his bout with encephalitis. But Hannibal is a patient man.

Hannibal chooses to say 'good boy' because it's often said to a dog behaving well _and_ for its use in sexual play. (Will has proven himself in need of a parent, after all.) Will's reaction to the phrase has his hips faltering and then the pace becoming frantic in its desperation. Hannibal nuzzles Will's cheek with his own - another show of comfort - but Hannibal doesn't dwell on it.

"You _can_ and you _will_ ," Hannibal insists, his voice firm but gentle. He does believe Will is able to. Hannibal's fingers curl in Will's hair and pull, just enough to add the barest hints of pain. His hand squeezes Will's erection. "You need it so much, don't you? You're incredibly hard, Will. I can feel your desperation - I can hear it in every sound you make and every thrust you give. It's exquisite." Hannibal sighs and lets his hand rub between their bodies faster.

"Right now, you are _my_ good boy, Will." Hannibal surprises himself pressing a chaste kiss to Will's cheek. And then another. "And I will hold you against my car all night if I must." A threat and a promise.

* * *

At home, wrapped in blankets and jerking himself off frantically, it's almost always the same thing. He can get hard, he can get _close_ , but just as the edge begins to approach, just as Will can see the end in sight, sensation stalls and stops. It gets _too_ sensitive and he gets _too_ hard and pleasure eases into a desperate ache that then fades to pain and disappointment. He gets frustrated and leaves it, and winds up coming without real satisfaction sometime during the night.

He _wants_ badly now, pressed so tightly to Hannibal's car and harder than he can remember being without pain in so damn long. The rain is an added weight, water dripping from his hair, his jacket soaked through at the shoulders, his jeans all but molding to his dick and feeling so much better as Hannibal rubs him. But that edge is sharp and dangerous and as Will starts to worry about it, he feels the first string of over-sensitivity spark painfully inside, drawing out a thinner sound, almost afraid.

Hannibal can't understand what that means, but instead of letting Will dwell, instead of giving up on him, instead Hannibal cuts cleanly through Will's doubt. (' _You_ can _and you_ will _.'_ ) His voice is clear and commanding and Will wants Hannibal to be right, but he doesn't know if he can. He doesn't know if he can handle-- But then Hannibal's hand curls in his hair again, pulling, painful, and Will gasps so sharply he almost coughs. He fights the urge to bury his face against Hannibal's shoulder as he talks, pointing out how hard he is, how vocal he is - and fuck, he _is_ being vocal, why the fuck is he... - and speeding his hand up. Will squirms, caught, desperate, the pleasure too much and not enough, and each breath is almost a sob when Hannibal's voice drops lower. (' _Right now you are **my** good boy, Will._ ')

There's a chaste press of Hannibal's lips to his cheek and Hannibal promises _more_ but there's no need. Will gasps quick and sharp, the praise catching him off guard, and one foot slips against the pavement as he grinds up into Hannibal's touch. He's on that knife's edge for only a fraction of a second and then suddenly there's no doubt in his mind. His fingers grab his own hair and his leg jerks hard with effort before both give out as he comes so hard his toes curl. He chokes, and the only thing holding him up is Hannibal as he shakes apart and writhes against Hannibal's Bentley, his pleasure almost violent in its intensity.

* * *

Hannibal would find it thrilling to draw this all out, to bring Will to the edge, have him look over, and then back him away from it. Hannibal would slow his hand and tease Will. He would have Will begging again, whimpering and whining and so incredibly frustrated. He would experience Will in the agony of being denied by his own hand... and yet this is not what Hannibal does. He doesn't seek to withhold a climax from Will. He _wants_ Will to find his release, he wants Will to succumb to him and be overcome with the rush of pleasure and relief from orgasm. If this it to be their only time, Hannibal will ensure Will is left more than satisfied. He will demonstrate to Will that submission and pain can be gateways to immense pleasure.

There is no blatant warning or indication for Will's impending release. Will gasps loudly, his foot shifting and then a leg twitching shortly thereafter. Will shudders - becomes undone - and Hannibal still has him, his hand feels Will's erection pulsate, an accompanying warmth and wetness soaking through Will's jeans.

His hand rubs slower and softer and Hannibal's tone is warm when he says, "There, see? Such a good boy for me, Will." There can be no mistaking the warm curl of pride in his voice. Hannibal kisses Will once more, this time on the smoother skin underneath Will's eye. In his peripheral vision, the hazard lights blink, a red warning light streaking across the darkness. (Hannibal feels a pang of unease, but ignores it.)

* * *

For those few perfect seconds, nothing else exists but pleasure. Will is dazed by it, caught off guard by it because he hadn't expected to be able to come. As his body shakes and pleasure pulses warm and thick through his senses he only distantly registers Hannibal's touch softening and Hannibal holding him upright. There's no strength left in his legs but Hannibal has him, supporting him, rubbing until Will's gasps edge closer to uncomfortable and the last twisting writhe of pleasure wrings itself free and leaves him panting, dazed, and feeling light and boneless.

His hair is plastered to his forehead as the pleasure calms down enough for him to be able to focus on Hannibal and that's when he hears Hannibal murmur to him, his tone so fucking warm that Will wishes he could freeze the moment and live in it instead of facing whatever is sure to follow this. Eyes closed, breathing heavy and ragged, Will's legs shake and his arms feel almost impossibly heavy as he holds them up. Then, with the praise lingering on his senses - _good boy_ \- Will lets out a longer, low groan and his hands shakily unclasp from behind his head without thought. He doesn't think about it as Hannibal kisses him again. He simply shivers and with Hannibal's hand still in his hair, he leans in until his forehead comes to rest on Hannibal's shoulder. His hands shakily come to grip in Hannibal's jacket and Will holds on, breathing hard, looking completely wrecked as small tremors and aftershocks filter through him.

In a way he's hiding here, but there's more to it. Hannibal's pride is like a physical touch, tangible, and Will can hardly explain how or why it helps, but the last of his panic over Philippa is gone, swallowed by all of this. Instead there's just Hannibal, just his praise and his stability and his understanding, and _see?_

The final thought hisses uncomfortably over his senses like a small jolt. He frowns. Why... no, he doesn't want to think. Not right now. So he doesn't. He merely grips Hannibal's jacket tighter until he can find his voice, and then murmurs, "F-fuck... thank you," under his breath, almost hoarse.

* * *

Hannibal is steady for Will, more than able to support his weight as he holds Will close and lets him experience the entirety of his orgasm. Hannibal is content and satiated despite having received no sexual stimulation himself. It's hardly important, for Will has given him a gift - Will has shown him obedience and vulnerability - but more than that, Will has remained _honest_ throughout the encounter. Hannibal is not so rigid that he requires unquestioning compliance - at least not from Will. (Remember, no breaking him.) He wants Will genuine: genuine reactions, genuine frustration, genuine distress and genuine pleasure.

And Will _is_ genuine with him, Will is weak and wrung out and it's beautiful to have played a part in coaxing him to such a state. As there haven't been rules laid out, that Will unclasps his hands doesn't irritate Hannibal - although it might help that Will is choosing to be closer, seeking comfort in resting his forehead on Hannibal's chest. Hannibal allows it and moves his hand away from Will's crotch, letting his arm hang by his side, not wanting to introduce new stimuli for Will. He's essentially clung to, Will's hands grasping onto him. Aftercare is important, and he won't abandon Will, no matter how simple it would be to break him on this road. Hannibal _could_ do it. Hannibal could mock him, belittle him, point out Will's inconsistencies from the night before and it would likely be enough to sever the ties between them.

Instead, Hannibal holds him and lets Will have this moment to calm down as well as hide because Will is most assuredly not ready to face the staggering truth of the entire evening. Lucky for Will, Hannibal has no plans on delving into all that tonight. Will is deserving of respite and Hannibal will give that to him. It's unfortunate for Will's health that the ordeal had to occur out in the rain, but he supposes it had added a nice atmospheric touch to everything.

When Hannibal is thanked, he nods and removes his hand from Will's head. It's time for this to come to a close. "You're most welcome, but we best get back into the car and get you home," Hannibal says softly. "Can you manage that?"

* * *

There is a safety here, hidden between Hannibal's shoulder and his chest. Will's bangs are soaked through with rain (and likely sweat) and there's a small part of him that's horrified at the idea of getting Hannibal's shirt dirty. Will pauses just for a second, then looks down at his hands unsteadily. He'd thought he'd been gripping Hannibal's jacket, but instead he sees only the soaked, clenched fabric of Hannibal's sky blue dress shirt and immediately he feels a small stab of something approaching horror that Hannibal is out in the rain in practically nothing. He'd been wearing a jacket before, hadn't he? Will had been convinced of it, but the logical conclusion is that... right, Hannibal had taken it off before getting back into the car at the crime scene. Will tries not to feel guilty but it doesn't work. It's muted, sheltered by the strength of Hannibal's body holding him up and the lazy flickers of pleasure still sparking through him, but it's the first break in the peace of this scene.

Hannibal doesn't seem to mind, though. He merely stands there and lets Will breathe, lets him cling close and work the sodden fabric between his fingers like a tactile connection. Will loses track of time then. He doesn't know if it's seconds or minutes when Hannibal's hand leaves his hair, but he feels the loss and it's enough to slowly make other things begin to come to the surface. Most notable is the sticky mess in his jeans that there's no way to clean right now. Will grimaces at the discomfort, and then at the realization that Hannibal made him come in his jeans like a goddamn teenager.

Will feels like he'll be more mortified later, but for right now, despite the small stabs of reality trying to cut through the peace, the relaxation lingers. His scalp throbs from all the pulling and he's bone-weary, but it's a good feeling. So when Hannibal suggests getting back in the car, Will bites back a protest and just nods.

"Yeah," he makes himself answer, and though he doesn't want to, though it feels unsettling, he loosens his grip on Hannibal's shirt and lets his hands fall back as he gets his legs shakily underneath him.

It takes him a few moments to awkwardly shift enough to reach the passenger's side door. Aware of Hannibal's gaze, Will keeps his own down low as he opens the door. For a moment he looks conflicted, because his jacket is mostly soaked through, but in the end he decides that rain will dry easier than sweat. He slips into the car shakily and immediately buckles himself in, slouching a little lower in his seat. A car ride with come in his jeans isn't going to be comfortable.


	3. Punishment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I will not punish you for the very things that I find captivating, Will," Hannibal tells him. It's tempting, it really is, but he will not have Will connect _need_ to a behavior that is worthy of punishment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (¬‿¬) Heehee... Another chapter! With some Bev and then more fun with our two men coming to an arrangement~
> 
> Merry's [tumblr](http://merrythought.tumblr.com) | Dapperscript's [tumblr](http://reallymisscoffee.tumblr.com/)  
> Thank you to [ TempestandTeacup](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TempestandTeacup/pseuds/TempestandTeacup) for editing most of this chapter! ♥

The drive is quiet, Debussy and the slide of the windshield wipers the only notable sounds. They are both wet and within their own minds. Will pointedly doesn't look over to him or say anything. Hannibal respects the delicate state Will is likely in. Will has much to think on, but there's also the physical exhaustion to contend with. Hannibal resists reaching over - Will is _not_ his child to comfort. Hannibal keeps his eyes on the road. As _Hommage à Rameau_ begins, Hannibal thinks of Rameau himself, of how his music had came under attack and he wonders if Will feels like the image of himself has been threatened by willingly submitting and seeking Hannibal's involvement in his pleasure... By the implication that he is a masochist _and_ able to ignore Hannibal's gender.

He drops Will off at his house with the suggestion to shower and sleep and the not so gentle reminder that taking his medication as prescribed is of the utmost importance. Hannibal feels the pull of fatigue from the hours spent driving, but he pushes through it. He, also, has a lot on his mind. He fondly replays the scene of Will re-enacting the crime, the predatory pacing, the jerk of his hand as if holding a knife. For Hannibal, it was nearly tantamount to a mating call. Not that he wishes to 'mate' with Will, no. While Will had been stunning in his desperation and submission (both at the crime scene and against the car), it would hardly be a relationship of equals.

When he arrives home, he's quick as he strips out of his wet clothing. Hannibal has a brief shower to warm himself up and then climbs into bed. At the very least, he'll be able to have a few hours of rest. Hannibal falls asleep to thoughts of Will shaking, to the serenade of gasped whines and the hissed curses. Tomorrow he will get the Bentley cleaned.

*** * ***

Over the weekend, Hannibal keeps busy and doesn't fuss over Will. He doesn't text or phone the man. He starts a new composition. He treats Jack to a lovely dinner on Sunday and smooths things over with the man, explaining Will's behavior as stress from being still on the mend and _his own_ actions as an exercise in grounding Will in the present reality. Jack confesses that, worried, he mentioned the incident to Alana Bloom. Hannibal lets none of his irritation show, simply nodding and agreeing that a second opinion is never a bad thing. He's certain he will have to deal with her sooner than later, but he's not worried about it. He knows how to assuage Alana.

* * *

Will purposefully does not let his mind wander too far as Hannibal drives them back that night. He's exhausted, his muscles relaxed, his body satiated, but his mind is another matter entirely. It takes great effort to shut his thoughts off and simply listen to the music in the car and the rumble of the tires under him as Hannibal drives him back. Will says nothing and Hannibal - likely sensing that Will doesn't want to talk - says nothing either. It's a long drive and Will settles somewhere between the music in the Bentley and the comfort of his own mind, and when Hannibal finally pulls up to his yard hours later, Will sends him a silent look at the suggestions and merely nods. He thanks him mildly and then climbs out of the car, grimacing at the uncomfortable slide and tug of dried come inside his jeans.

He takes his medication and then takes a shower, and then Will lets his dogs out for a final run and sits on the steps of the porch. Winston races around and does his business but ultimately he comes back and settles himself at Will's side. Will strokes his fur quietly and doesn't let himself think. He merely focuses on the touch of Winston's fur and on the sound of his dogs racing around and struggles not to fall asleep or catch his death with his hair soaked from the shower.

When he sleeps that night, it's deeply. He's fitful, his dreams forming writhing nightmares and when he wakes up the next morning, it's to a violent wrenching gasp and the residual reminder of pressure against his dick. He looks down, caked in sweat, and distantly notices he's hard and it's only then that the mortification properly settles in. Will withstands it for a few minutes and sits up enough to put his face in his hands and try steady his breathing. He remembers the press of Hannibal's body and how fucking _desperate_ he'd been to have Hannibal touch him. Words and phrases filter through his mind - force you, good boy, desperation - and with each reminder, Will feels his face grow hotter and his stomach twist sharper. Everything he is wants to curl in on himself.

It isn't that he's shaken by his reaction to a man, regardless of how straight he's always expected himself to be. Sure, it's a few decades late for a sexual identity crisis, but Will isn't going to freak about _that_. Not now anyway. But that he'd found pleasure in the idea of Hannibal forcing him, that he'd drawn strength from his confidence and had been reckless enough to _need_ so strongly and obviously where anyone could have seen him is another matter. That he'd shown _Hannibal_ \- a man Will sees as a friend, who Will actually fucking _respects_ \- such clear fucking neediness and weakness... Will has no fucking idea how he's supposed to look Hannibal in the eye after this.

The thought is just upsetting, so Will staunchly refuses to think about it. Denial isn't a great idea but it's all he has, so he merely gathers himself together, shuts off his phone, and turns his attention to his dogs that weekend. He pampers the fuck out of them and only feels a little guilty that he's doing it to avoid his own problems and to avoid thought altogether.

*** * ***

Unfortunately for Hannibal Lecter, not _all_ people in his life are so ready to avoid problems. While Will sequesters himself away for the weekend - with the exception of contacting Sutcliffe's office for a follow-up - Alana is treated to a mildly alarming recollection from Jack Crawford when next they meet. They're merely having a conversation about the psychology behind the killer Will had become overloaded on. Jack's speaking about Will's drop and Alana is concerned enough by this. She's about to lean on Jack, to insist he _stop_ using Will for awhile at the very least when Jack rushes on, mentioning the way Hannibal had responded to the situation. Alana freezes, listens, and concern is not the only emotion that wells up within her.

In her defense, she allows the knowledge to hang until Tuesday afternoon, when she's had time to think it over. Then, sighing, she pulls up her phone and decides that a text will be easier than outright accusation. She has no desire to trap Hannibal in this conversation.

> **Jack tells me Will had an incident at a crime scene on Friday and that you were there. Should I be concerned by what he saw, Hannibal?**

* * *

On one hand, Hannibal is surprised that Alana Bloom chooses such an impersonal method of communication. On the other, he figures she likely didn't want to come across as accusatory. He does like Alana Bloom, but he is not fond of having his methods questioned. Hannibal gives a small sigh and taps out his reply:

> **No, I needn't think so. I provided Will with physical contact and grounding. That is all. After a few minutes he was able to return and give Jack his report. As you know, he should not have been there to begin with.**

He will give her a call later and invite Alana over for a drink. Best to be careful. He's sorted out things with Jack Crawford and he must deal with Alana in a prompt fashion. Also, Hannibal has a new brew for her to try. He's curious how she will find it.

*** * ***

Desperate times call for desperate measures. Will hadn't answered the texts she sent so Beverly Katz decides to take matters into her more than capable hands. If Will wanted to sulk and hide away, she would at least bring the beer and munchies. And herself. One of those three things has to help.

She picks up a six-pack and a few bags of chips and chocolate bars on her way to Wolf Trap. The drive isn't so bad, but it definitely would be too long of a commute for her. To each their own and all. When she pulls up to Will's property and parks, she hears the telltale dogs announce her arrival. Beverly walks up to Will's quaint home, bags and six-pack in hand.

"Hey, Will. I know you're here," she calls out when she gets to his door. "Your car is here and now I am, so you better let me on or you're paying for my gas next time we see each other."

* * *

The dogs are getting the full spa treatment and Will is doing his best not to feel guilty over not doing this for them every day when the sound of an engine guns in the driveway. Immediately Will feels his heart leap somewhere in the general vicinity of his throat when he thinks _Hannibal_ but then the puttering of the engine reaches his ears and he begins to calm. The Bentley's engine is much softer than that. Jack, then? God, that's not much better. Will knows it isn't Alana.

For a moment he freezes where he's knelt on the floor, Winston's brush in hand, the dog himself mostly brushed, a pile of dog fur on the floor next to him that would likely send Hannibal running for the hills.

 _Hannibal_. Fuck. Will feels his stomach twist at the very thought and the image of the picture he must have made against the car again slams him so hard that he can feel the back of his neck and ears heat until they've got to be a bright red. Which is, of course, when Beverly's voice sounds.

The dogs are immediately curious, Buster racing to the door in yappy glee, but Winston only lets out a soft vocalization before turning to look at Will. Some of his trepidation must show because Winston whines softly in the back of his throat, but ultimately Will decides that he probably can't pretend that he's gone out for a walk. Beverly knows he'd never leave the dogs. They may not be as close as some, but she's likely his favorite from work.

Slowly, like a condemned man walking to the noose, Will rises and reaches down to dust the dog fur from his jeans. Predictably it doesn't work great, but at least the t-shirt he's chosen is a multicolored pattern so the dog fur doesn't show up as well on it. Will sets the brush down on a table, reaches up to rub his face - still feverish but growing less so on the medication - and eases his dogs away from the back door with soft sounds. Even then, he's helpless as Buster leaps through the open door excitedly once Will opens it, and Beverly is treated to Buster's enthusiasm as he darts around her feet. Will looks down at him in silence and then looks back up at Beverly. He needs his glasses.

"Most people knock," he says mildly, but still steps aside to let her in as he reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

* * *

Will's property can be be summed up in one word: rustic. Its pretty well maintained, the stairs maybe could use a new coat of paint, but it suits Will Graham. Beverly can picture him sitting out here on his porch, his pooches roaming the yard happily while Will sipped on whatever alcoholic drink suited him. Probably something strong to take the edge off of everything. She suspects there's a lot of shit Will would like the edge taken off of. It would be a nice, quiet existence here. Not her jam, but she can respect it.

She's honestly a little surprised that Will puts up little resistance and comes to the door after her first call. She had an ex who was prone to mood swings and antisocial behavior, so this isn't her first rodeo. The door opens to a disheveled looking Will Graham and dogs bound out. Time to get to work.

"Well, my hands are full of feel-better essentials," she explains with a friendly smirk. "And you did this to yourself. You go off the grid like this? You're inviting a Beverly Katz drop-in."

* * *

The dogs immediately head out to inspect one Beverly Katz. Buster, as always, is enthusiastic, circling her and sniffing but not jumping up on her at least. Will appreciates his restraint. The others filter out slowly with the exception of Winston, who has glued himself to Will's heels since Hannibal took him home Friday night. Jack is curious as he sniffs around Beverly's hip and Max seems to find her pants interesting, and Zoe hangs back, curious but shy. When Harley goes in and starts to curiously bump her elbow, Will sighs, makes a harsh, "tss," sound between his teeth, and immediately all of the dogs disperse. There are wagging tails and lolling tongues and Buster relents and starts to excitedly sniff Beverly again, but Will's always had trouble with Buster.

Sighing, holding the door for her, Will turns away and shuffles his feet until she's taken a step in. He tries not to think about how it seems like his house has been invaded a lot as of late, but he fails. Beverly's never really been by before. He's never needed to entertain her, so this is both new and suspicious and Will doesn't do well with surprises. Still, he can understand it. In a way he'd been expecting this. Jack couldn't have possibly kept Will's condition silent for long and given his freak out at the crime scene...

Will's expecting a card in the mail from Price, or a fruit basket or something. Zeller will pretend not to care. Alana might call or visit. Jack will back off for a time now. But he hadn't been sure how Bev would react. Not until now.

Will finds his glasses and puts them on, feeling less trapped by the thick black rims. "I didn't go off the grid. I turned my phone off," Will argues weakly, rubbing his hands over Winston's ears. "But since you came all this way... you can, um. You can put that stuff on the table. I can chill the beer. And thanks," Will adds, somewhat awkwardly.

This isn't what he'd been expecting.

* * *

Will's dogs are actually pretty behaved. She's heard that Will was the equivalent of a 'crazy cat lady' and from what Bev can tell, it's not exactly wrong. She doesn't even bother trying to count the canines that crowd into the entryway. Compared to what she's seen out in the field, having a handful of dogs (perhaps two hands worth) is hardly _that_ out there. Bev isn't put off by all the sniffing and tail wagging, smiling as she enters Will's rather quaint house. She observes Will put on his glasses but chooses not to comment on it - obviously he doesn't need them for he hadn't been wearing them previously. He probably feels safer with them on his face. Fair enough.

She kicks off her shoes before heading into the kitchen and emptying the contents of her loot haul onto Will's table as he takes the beer from her. "You're right, I did come all this way and I even brought snacks," Bev states, her tone easygoing. Being the oldest, caregiving has been ingrained in her.

"Chips if you want something salty and chocolate if you want something sweet." She plucks a bag of BBQ chips out, opening it and helping herself to a chip. "So, I'm going to take a guess that you're doing the equivalent of hiding your head in the sand? ... Of course that's just a myth about ostriches, but you get my point." Beverly doesn't force eye contact, she simply takes another chip and looks around the homey kitchen.

* * *

Will reluctantly follows Beverly into the kitchen like he's trying not to step on a hidden mine. He keeps his gaze turned away as he takes the beer from her and walks it to the fridge. He freezes just for a moment upon opening it up, because there's Hannibal's goddamned pot of Beef Daube and Will makes a complicated expression that ends up somewhere between mortification and a grimace before he shoves it to the back of the fridge and hides it behind a carton of milk and old Chinese take out. He puts the beer in the fridge and closes the door, trying to remind himself to stay in the moment and to _not_ let himself dwell on Hannibal.

Unfortunately he suspects that's exactly what Beverly is here for. Taking two beers from the fridge, he hands one to her and retrieves a bottle opener so he can open his own before handing it over. He sets his hip against the counter and lets his glasses slip down his nose until the thick black rims block off Beverly's eyes. He can see her face, her smile, and it gives the illusion that he's looking her in the eye. He only hopes his face isn't too red, and that he doesn't look as guilty and uncomfortable as he feels.

"I'm not hiding. I'm... recovering. Doctor's orders," Will says, but there's a thread of a sardonic bitterness behind his tone. "To what do I owe the visit? I'd prefer not to beat around the bush."

Yet despite this, he buys himself some time as he ducks out of the kitchen - taking a handful of chips along the way simply to appease Beverly - and walks to the couch. Sitting down, he lets the dogs swarm around him like a furry shield.

* * *

Beverly Katz doesn't have many close friends, but that's fine with her. She's always been the type to be able to float between various friend circles, to mesh well and have plenty of people she's friendly with. She's never needed to be in a relationship or have a close gal pal to feel fulfilled. She loves her job - it's interesting and a challenge. Jack's a good boss and the boy's - Zeller and Price - are always a riot. Will Graham is like the awkward new kid in class and despite them probably being close in age, Bev feels a bit like the older sister - protective.

She takes the offered beer and is glad to see Will grab a handful of the chips. Guy looks like he needs to eat. He's also looks visibly flustered about something. Well, probably her impromptu drop in, but maybe there's more going on than she's aware of. It sucks to be caught off guard - she doesn't like being surprised after all - but Will _had_ turned off his phone. Bev follows him into the living room, taking the bag of chips with her and settling herself in an arm chair. It's covered in dog hair, but whatever. It's lived on and loved.

"Why do you think? Because I'm worried about you, Will, but maybe not in the way you think," Bev replies, taking a sip. "I'm worried that you're going to beat yourself up about what happened out there."

* * *

Will honestly isn't sure what he finds most horrifying, Beverly commenting about Philippa or Beverly commenting about _Hannibal_. They're two very different threads of humiliation and as interconnected as they seem, he can't quite focus on both simultaneously while feeling so trapped. He eats a few of the chips and while his tongue tells him he enjoys the taste, the act of chewing only makes him feel like he's somehow popped cardboard into his mouth. Getting caught off guard is never pleasant but he doesn't blame Beverly for that. Everything Will is feeling is _entirely_ his fault and he knows it.

He'd said yes to Jack. He'd had Hannibal drive him out there. He'd begged Hannibal to bring him back down at the crime scene.

He'd begged Hannibal on the side of the road...

Will feels a twist of heat mix with the mortification and he gives his fingers a small snap. Winston immediately jumps up, his paws on Will's thighs, and Will sets his bottle of beer aside as he buys himself a few seconds to bury his face in Winston's fur. He takes silent comfort from the dog for a few moments and feels Max settle down over his feet in a way that indicates Will isn't going anywhere anytime soon. Then, sighing, he reluctantly looks up at Beverly and his lips pull into a wry grin that doesn't meet his eyes.

"Beat myself up? Why would I do that? Oh, maybe because I almost tampered with a crime scene for the _second_ time in less than a month? Or-or maybe because I got lost in the mindset again. Put people at risk. Lost my own fucking mind?"

A mirthless laugh falls from his lips, almost barked out, though its effect is ruined when Winston licks Will's face. He frowns and then gestures with one hand and Winston jumps up onto the couch with him, whining plaintively until Will sets the chips aside and slides his fingers through Winston's fur.

"Bet Jack's just _thrilled_ with me right now. Is this a message from him? You bringing me a warning, or is Jack _concerned_ again?"

* * *

Bev watches Will snap his fingers and a dog half jumps up on him. Will soaks up the attention and comfort and Bev has a small smile on her face, finding the sight kinda cute. Animals are good for the soul. If she was allowed a pet in her apartment, Beverly would have definitely had one (or a few). Being unattached let her pet-sit/house-sit for others, so that was a perk. She could get her fill during those stints.

When Will _does_ finally address her, he goes off into a bit of a tirade. Bev takes another drink of her beer and lets him say his peace. He probably needs to vent, so she doesn't take it personally.

"Hey now, I'm not some messenger girl for Jack," Beverly pipes up, one eyebrow arched in defiance. "Whatever is going on between Jack and you is your business. I'm here because _I_ want to be, because I think of you as a friend, okay?" She shakes her head. Will's an uppity little thing when he's stressed.

"You shouldn't have been out there, okay? Jack took a risk. And we _did_ catch the guy yesterday."

* * *

Will's breathing is a little rough when he begins to ease himself back down following the tirade. He's been on edge for awhile, and for more reasons than the body at the crime scene; he just doesn't know how to handle the rest of it. Encephalitis is one thing. People send him pitying looks and come to visit and he winds up with cards and balloons for some goddamned reason. Losing his grounding at a crime scene though? Now that he's supposedly on the mend? That's different. Not to mention how he'd grounded himself. Will lets Winston lick his cheek and tries not to think about the fact that people had been there to _see_ Hannibal grab his hair and pull him back from the edge.

Instead he focuses on Beverly, who doesn't seem shaken by Will's mild explosion. She looks a little incredulous, maybe, and Will can sense something _almost_ offended but it falls short. It's just enough to make him feel guilty on top of everything else and as she dismisses the claim that she's here on Jack's orders, Will closes his eyes. He doesn't apologize, but given his wince, he looks like he wants to. The urge to grab a handful of aspirin is almost overwhelming.

"I'm--... Yeah. I think of you as a friend too," Will says, and just like that, the fire is contained. He just sounds ashamed of himself, and as he reaches up to rub at his face with one hand, he feels less in control than he had before she'd arrived. "I didn't mean to snap at you. It's been a long few weeks. Jack screwed up by guilting me into going to the crime scene, and-- wait, what?" Will cuts in, blinking, and tries to rewind what Beverly had finished with.

"You caught him?" Will perks up a little, though the residual anxiety from the scene is immediately apparent in his posture. "Who is he?"

* * *

Will looks a little guilty, maybe a bit embarrassed at his little rant, but Beverly isn't holding her breath for some apology. She's a tough cookie. She doesn't need apologies, at least not due to emotional outbursts and a few incorrect assumptions thrown her way. Will likely has had to apologize a lot in his life, she's not going to ask or expect one now.

Predictably, Will wants to climb back in the saddle. Typical man. "We're not working right now - you especially - but we were able to find him with your help," she smiles, knowing that Will will feel better at the knowledge. "It doesn't matter who he is. How are _you?_ " Physically, emotionally - Bev doesn't really care. She just wants Will to have the opportunity to be able to open up about whatever he's comfortable with.

* * *

It does help. It helps a whole fucking lot to know that despite the freak out at the scene, he'd not compromised the case. Will feels the flicker of anxiety, feels the residual unjust desire to lash out, to make Philippa _pay_ but he immediately turns his attention to Winston and breathes him in. Closing his eyes until the wave passes (and silently frustrated that even now he can't seem to disconnect completely) Will just breathes through the worst of it. But when Beverly just straight up says that it doesn't _matter_ , Will looks up sharply and fixes her with an incredulous frown.

"What? Of course it matters who it is. I--"

She cuts him off. Honestly it's probably for the best because he'd been about to say 'I need to know' and not even Will knows why. The problem is her chosen topic, and Will's frown deepens. Immediately he glances away, sinking a little lower in his seat. His discomfort is likely a tangible thing because he doesn't want to talk about himself. Not now, and definitely not about what had happened.

"I'm fine, Bev. I'm just... shaken. Pissed at myself. That's all."

* * *

Bev isn't deterred by the displeased body language Will is displaying. She's aware of the fact that the last thing he wants to talk about is himself, but sometimes it had to be done. Opening up is usually uncomfortable and awkward and she knows they're not the closest of friends. She's sure he doesn't really have anyone else. At least, she's never heard Will talk about anyone else. He's obviously close to Lecter, though.

"Shaken and pissed off at yourself, huh," Beverly echoes back, thoughtfully. "You're only human, Will. And no offense, but there was obviously a reason you weren't allowed in the Bureau and I'm guessing you didn't have encephalitis back then." She gives him a shrug, but it's not out of pity.

"You're a little special and that's fine. It's helped us out. We've basically profited off of you. So, maybe you get in a little too deep, your Doctor friend was able to calm you down, right?"

* * *

Whether or not Beverly intends to be offensive doesn't matter when she _is_. Will's expression pinches slightly at the reminder and Winston curiously nudges closer, moving in and nuzzling his nose in against the side of Will's face until Will slides an arm around him to bury in his fur. He's uncomfortable and the last thing he wants to have is this conversation. Well... no, the _last_ thing he wants to do is to see Hannibal right now. How the fuck is he supposed to look at him after... everything?

Hell, how is he supposed to handle Hannibal's mention? Beverly comes in verbally swinging and Will knows he hasn't managed to school his expression into something casual in time. His shock is likely briefly evident and he can feel the curl of humiliation and embarrassment rise up within him. For a moment he fights it, not wanting it to be _that_ obvious, but he already knows it's a lost cause. Even were he able to keep the ruddy embarrassment from his face, the fact he likely _looks_ cagey says a lot.

"I guess," he grunts, dismissive and maybe a little more curled in on himself now that Beverly has confirmed that she'd _seen_. Will shifts in his seat, uncomfortable. Is he supposed to say something? Explain? How must it have looked? Fuck. "Look, I don't know what you saw..."

* * *

Will isn't having a good time at all. It's quite obvious. Beverly is glad that for the dogs being around him, providing support. Unconditional love. Will looks like a guy who needs some of that right now. He's worn out and tired and agitated and Bev _does_ feel for the guy, but she doesn't want to up and leave and let him stew in his own negativity. Sometimes friendship get messy, but she has the balls to stick with it.

 The mention of Doctor Lecter seems to hit the nail on the head. Will flushes and appears stunned. Hmm. Interesting. Is he more bothered at the fact that he'd had a meltdown at a crime scene or that he'd been lead away and embraced by Lecter? And because Beverly Katz is a curious one, she decides to just asks.

"Are you more embarrassed that you got a little lost or that you needed his help? ...I mean, whatever works, right?"

* * *

Trust Beverly to not back down once she's got her hooks in something. Will frowns as he looks down at the floor, his jaw tight in discomfort. If he'd been expecting her to let him off easy, he'd been sorely mistaken. She doesn't really have a right to know, but she _is_ his friend in a sense. It's a work friendship, still budding, still awkward, but she's better than Zeller. Will considers whether or not he even wants to say anything for a long time, and when he finally gives in, it's with a slight slump to his shoulders.

His voice is still tight and defensive when he speaks, though. He's not _that_ comfortable around her. "A little lost? I could have been charged for tampering with a crime scene. Jack thinks I'm fragile enough as it is. Doesn't stop him from using me whenever he wants, but it does mean he'll keep judging me." Will's felt rubbed the wrong way by Jack's glances as of late, like he's afraid Will is going to turn a knife on them all just because he can.

"I shouldn't have been out there in the first place. I shouldn't have _needed--_ Doctor Lecter's help," Will adds, with only a brief blip that indicates he'd been about to use Hannibal's first name instead. "Especially not... like that."

* * *

She's not sure if Will is going to shut down or actually talk to her about this. She obviously hopes it's the latter. They're not anywhere near super chummy, it's only been a few months, but she doesn't think they're acquaintances either. Will has Lecter - but he's a professional.

"Jack judges us all. He's the boss. That's what they do," Bev says with a shrug. She's had her fair share of scathing comments from Jack Crawford over the years. They all have - no one's immune. But Jack was at least straightforward with them all. She would rather have a boss like that than one who beat around the bush afraid to hurt feelings.

"But you _didn't_ tamper with the crime scene and yeah, you shouldn't have been out there, but we appreciate the help and we caught the killer, so stop beating yourself up about it." She gives him an exasperated look. "And so what, he lead you away and he yanked your hair? It got you out of your funk." She doesn't know what else Lecter had done or said, but if it helped, it helped. Who was she judge? She's not the boss.

* * *

Mortification sweeps in like leaves through an open door in the fall, and it's equally as colorful as it makes his cheeks practically flame with humiliation. That answers that question, then. Beverly had seen. And if Beverly had seen, other people had seen. Will can already imagine Zeller's comments. Price won't be bad. He'll make light of it. But Will is worried about Jack. He has no idea how Jack will react, and in the event Freddie had been there and Will hadn't seen her... fuck. He makes a mental note to be more aware of Freddie Lounds.

"I wish it was that simple," Will mutters back as he turns his attention to Winston, who keeps sending him small inquisitive looks and tilting his head. Will ruffles his ears, and when Winston lets out a long, low groan and settles down with his chin on Will's lap, Will simply strokes his fur and then chances another glance over at Beverly.

"That's it? That's all you've got? Just 'it got you out of your funk'?" Will asks, trying not to sound too judgmental. "That's... that's not a normal way to respond to stress. Everyone knows that. Literally. Everyone _there_ will have known it."

* * *

It's obvious enough that Will had been hoping some of the details of what Lecter had done weren't visible. Will blushes, embarrassed and agitated and Bev sighs. If anyone needed a break, it was Will Graham. It didn't take forensic science to figure that out. She can't imagine how it must have felt getting dragged out, being sick, having to empathize with a killer and then losing it in front of work colleagues and strangers. Beverly thinks Will is more worried about the people he knows than the strangers.

"Who's to say what's normal or not normal? He's a doctor, I'm sure if it was crazy abnormal Lecter wouldn't have done it," she says and takes another swig of beer. "As far as everyone who saw, you'll be the talk of the town for a bit, but it wasn't _that_ outrageous to want to gossip about it for weeks." At least that's what she hopes. Jack had already told Zeller, Price and her to not bring it up around Will.

* * *

Will tries valiantly for a few moments to simply keep a stiff upper lip and not show how disturbed he is by the fact Beverly knows, but all it takes is a few more seconds for that facade to crumble. His expression pinches and he grimaces, ducking his head as he leans in to rest his elbows against his knees, rubbing hard at his closed eyes with his fingers. Then he just gives in and buries his face in his hands. Might as well, right? Everyone already knows he's unstable, and now _everyone_ knows... everything with Hannibal. Maybe they don't know the details but they know enough for Will to be embarrassed. Beverly sure as fuck knows something, even if she's being too polite to say anything.

"Zeller's going to fucking love this," Will mutters under his breath, his voice so sharp it might as well be Hannibal's dumb pencil-scalpel he has in his office. Will rubs hard at his eyes, wondering what laws of physics he'd have to break or how much of his soul he'd have to sell to get the floor to open up from underneath him.

"How are you so calm about this?

* * *

Bev wishes she could just go over and shake some sense into Will. While she can see herself doing it, she's definitely not going to. Will doesn't like being touched, although Doctor Lecter seemed to be an exception to that, though. He'd lead Will away after the meltdown, did the whole hug-n-hair-pull routine and then directed Will back to the car. There was definitely a level of intimacy between the two men that Will didn't have with anyone else. It intrigued her, sure, but she wasn't going to pry. Maybe there was something more to it, maybe there wasn't.

She watches Will express his sheer displeasure, first rubbing at his face and then hiding his head in his hands. Poor guy...

"Honestly? I'm just glad you have someone who can support you," she replies with a shrug. "Mental instability isn't new to me, Will. You're certainly not the only one who's dealing with shit, but you _are_ trying to get help and still do good and that's what matters, okay?"

* * *

She's taking it well and Will knows that but it doesn't mean that _he's_ taking it well. The way Hannibal had yanked his hair at the scene, the way he'd mitigated Will's impending breakdown in front of prying eyes... Will still appreciates that. He does. But the fact that people are going to know and likely talk about what happened is another matter entirely. The only consolation Will has is that they don't know the rest of the story, what had happened against the side of Hannibal's car in the rain. The very notion is enough to risk his face coloring again but he does his best to hold that reaction back, just ducking his head again as he moves one hand over to stroke through Winston's fur. It helps.

"Just... do me a favor and tell Zeller to fuck off if you hear him talking about it, all right? I don't want him - or anyone - talking about it. I don't even want to talk about it. Why _are_ we?"

Will grimaces. He knows he's not being a great host but he doesn't appreciate being in over his head. Instead he just tries to focus on the fact that Beverly had come all this way just to see him and make sure he's okay. It makes him relax a little more almost immediately.

"...Sorry. Just... long few weeks."

* * *

"Jack already told us all to not mention it," Beverly informs him. She finishes her beer in a not exactly womanly swig, but she doesn't care. If she's going to be staying here for any length of time, she'll likely need a few beers in her system. Even under better circumstances, Will definitely isn't the easiest person to be talking to, but this is like pulling teeth.

Actually, screw the beers. "Hey, you got any real liquor around? The level of 'I hate myself and my life' is nearing that of a sixteen-year-old female and we need to do something about it."

With that, she stands up. She'll tear down Will's kitchen if she must.

* * *

The last thing Will is expecting is some old-fashioned-Southern-therapy coming from Beverly Katz. Beer is one thing. Beer is something you drink with friends to shoot the breeze and relax. The sudden question about real liquor has Will looking up at her in a mild surprise that stuns him quiet for a few long seconds. Still, he only deliberates over it for a few seconds before he decides... shit, yeah, why the fuck not? Getting drunk alone is just sad. Getting drunk with a friend is more socially acceptable, and given the choice between talking about feelings and downing bad alcohol, he knows what appeals more.

"Depends on what you mean by 'real liquor'. If by that, you mean something above five percent alcohol, yeah. If you mean something that tastes _good_ , the jury's still out. There's some Old Crow in the pantry, and various other whiskeys. Staff gifts, birthdays, you name it," Will adds in a slightly disparaging tone. People don't know him and don't know what to get him, but the second he'd mentioned whiskey was his poison of choice, other professors had jumped on that. Will doesn't care. Whiskey's a quick way to get to sleep.

* * *

Sometimes the best therapy is simply getting shitfaced drunk with a friend and being with them. Bev's not above it and she doubts Will is going to mind if they veer off into legitimate drinking. He looks beyond defeated and exasperated and she doesn't feel like any of her encouragement has made decent headway, so bring on the booze!

She makes her way to the kitchen, finds the whiskey tumblers and selects Jack Daniel's because it's _that kind_ of crisis. She pours the glasses full and then gives a considering look to the bottle. Yeah, it's coming with her too. They drink the shitty whiskey and eat potato chips. At some point the other munchies get dragged into the living room and it's whiskey, dogs, junk food and Beverly is feeling much better as the time goes by. So much so that she asks, "So what's _really_ bothering you? I feel like... Like you're not telling me the whole story."

* * *

The only _Jack_ Will ever looks forward to seeing, then. He must be a little much to handle now, which he can't really blame Beverly for. So when she walks back in with the bottle of Jack Daniels, Will doesn't hesitate. He takes it, and he resigns himself to a blissful numbness that'll result in a fucking migraine later.

Drinking with Beverly isn't _bad_. It takes awhile to get started, but eventually the warmth and haziness of the alcohol begin to kick in. Will eats because he has to, but he drinks because he wants to, and bit by bit, he begins to relax. Self-loathing takes a backseat to ambivalence and by the time Beverly finally slurs her question, Will is pleasantly drunk and playing a small game of fetch with an old, ratty tennis ball. He can't throw it far in the house, but the dogs are happy.

"Couldn't hold it in the whole way home," he murmurs back, and a small voice in his mind tells him he doesn't want to be saying _anything_ , but like this, his tongue is looser. "Had another breakdown on th'way home."

* * *

Sometimes, when faced with a difficult situation, the adult thing to do was drink. The phrase 'liquid courage' existed for a reason, right? While Beverly would prefer that Will _not_ need to get suitably drunk to open up (seeing as he's on medication as well), Will seemed so damn wound up and _tortured_. She'd made a judgment call and when Will actually answers her question, she knows she's made the right decision. Thanks, Jack. Her lips twitch in a repressed smile at the bottle that they've now made lighter.

She makes a thoughtful sound at the admission. Likely something had happened between Lecter and Will and he's been beating himself up about it. She takes another sip of whiskey, not wanting to rush to press for more details. He throws the tennis ball and she watches a few of the more energetic dogs bound after it.

"Okay, _and?_ That's th'beginning, what's the middle of the story?"

* * *

"Asked him to stop the car. Well," Will amends with a small grimace of would-be-embarrassment, "demanded more like it." He watches the dogs scramble over themselves to chase the tennis ball that's only half-bouncy anymore and for a moment Will almost loses the plot of what he'd been saying before he remembers Beverly is still waiting on him. Lifting a sluggish hand to his face, Will rubs at his forehead and lets his thoughts drift back. They're hazy and he can only remember snatches while drunk, but they're enough to color his face a little more than before.

"He uh. He calmed me down again. But it went, um... went... more. Further. I d'nno," Will sighs, and rubs a little harder at his face. He's saved by the dog, because Buster comes racing back over with his maw stretched around the ratty tennis ball, and Will needs to take a few moments to wrestle it out of his mouth before he can do anything else.

"Things... happened."

* * *

Even _with_ the liquid courage, Beverly can tell this is going to be playing twenty questions with Will to get the entirety of the story. Well, she's committed herself to this now. She bought alcohol, munchies, drove out here, watched Will blush and stammer and seek comfort from his dogs and then JD has been called upon and thankfully, whiskey is doing its trick. Will has been more forthcoming and there's also less self-hate spewing out so Bev is going to count this as a victory.

With all the face rubbing and stumbling going on, Bev can tell Will is working himself up to coming clean. She may not be able to offer absolution, but she's certain she can offer some friendly advice of some kind.

"Okay. With ya so far. Car stopped. Calmed you down. Things happened," she repeats. "Now, go on. What kind'ff _things_?"

At this moment she has a feeling where this _could_ be going, but she doesn't want to make any assumptions.

* * *

Does he want to be saying this? No. Something tells Will this is _bad_ , but he's already started and honestly, it's been festering. What is he supposed to do with the knowledge of what had happened on the side of the highway? How's he even supposed to look Hannibal in the eyes now? He's already given serious thought to just up and cancelling his appointment, but that would require a phone call or a text and even that seems daunting. Is saying anything smart? Not in the slightest. But Jack would flip, Alana would be concerned, and Zeller and Price are out of the question. Barring his dogs, Will doesn't have anyone to talk to.

Buster jumps up and mouths at the hand that's holding the ball and Will makes a quick sound between his teeth that make Buster draw back with a whine. Will frowns at him and then throws the wet tennis ball and the resulting whirlwind of dogs is comforting.

"He's... he's not my therapist. Not officially," Will prefaces, because despite his confusion and internal panic, he doesn't actually want Hannibal in trouble. "It... I turned it... sexual." Which is admittedly not the whole truth. He'd gotten hard, and he'd asked Hannibal not to stop. He'd... fuck, he'd _really_ asked... Will winces and rubs at his face, then reaches over for the bottle again.

* * *

Sexual. Something _sexual_ had happened between Lecter and Will. Beverly is by no means bothered about the same-sex thing, what sets off alarm bells in her head is that something sexual had happened when Will was clearly _not well._ The timing hadn't been appropriate for anything even remotely sexual to occur. Will had been shaken up from a crime scene, recovering from his shtick with the brain-on-fire business, and Hannibal - a doctor _and_ psychiatrist - thought it was a good time for some hanky-panky? As a friend wanting to look after Will, she's pretty damn close to launching into a rant about Lecter taking advantage of Will, but she knows that won't help.

Shit. She takes a deep breath and eats a piece of licorice instead.

Beverly frowns as she watches Will predictably rub at his face and then go for more whiskey. Will's pretty bothered by it happening, she just needs to find out _why_ exactly.

"Okay, somethin' sexual. So what's, ya know, getting to you about it? ...Was in consensual?" There's no great way to ask, so she'll bite the bullet.

* * *

Will can't believe he's actually said that. It seems like a decidedly bad idea to mention anything that happened the other night but his mind feels fuzzy and his tongue feels looser. This is likely what Beverly has been after all day and Will wants to feel pissed over it but he doesn't. Instead he just feels drunk, which is a nice, safe place to be. When he's sober later he likely won't feel as charitable but for now, he's not going to look too deeply into this conversation. Or so he hopes. So he just grabs the whiskey, pours himself a little more, and he's in the process of tipping the glass back when Beverly's question breaks through some of the haze in his mind.

Will promptly chokes. Choking on alcohol is not a pleasant experience and the burn in it is enough for him to immediately, clumsily set the bottle back on the coffee table. Will lifts a hand to his mouth and doubles over, coughing and cursing roughly when he has the air to do so. But despite his coughing, Will still struggles to get enough air in him to try and dismiss the concern. Hannibal's many things but he doesn't want Beverly thinking he'd take advantage of him. That's not what that was... Right?

"Y-yes! Yes it was... was consen'sal. I... I asked. I asked him. I don't fucking know why I asked him but it was my idea. Don't-- don't."

Had it been ethical? Maybe not. But it hadn't been rape.

* * *

Right now alcohol is her friend. More specifically, _Jack Daniels_ is Beverly's best friend as it's keeping Will socially lubricated. While he's not exactly forthcoming, he's at least answering her damn questions (although somewhat reluctantly). It's a tricky business navigating friendships, knowing when to push and back off, or in this case, push in a different way with the help of liquor. Hey, she'll take all the help she can get. Will's always looked like the type of guy who needed people looking out for him (and from her observations, he doesn't have really anyone doing that).

Her blunt question has Will choking on a mouthful of whiskey. Bev grimaces as he sputters and tries to sort himself out. As soon as he's able to do so, Will clears up her confusion. Well. Kind of.

"Alright, alright, you asked him," Bev says, lifting her hands in the air as an act of concession. She's still pretty confused why Will is beating himself up over this. He's clearly embarrassed and judgmental over the whole thing, but _why?_ Does have internalized homophobia or some kind? Maybe Lecter wants more so Will feels pressured? Maybe Will wants more and Lecter doesn't, so Lecter felt pressured? Christ, thinking was complicated while intoxicated.

"So, I take you to two - uh - are not an item then or where'z the problem?"

* * *

It's not an ideal situation, but Will doesn't see it that way. He's sick, he's stressed, and the other night had been one of his worst breakdowns ever. He doesn't see Beverly's point - that a professional had allowed anything sexual to continue while Will was clearly under duress - because it doesn't fit his mental image of himself, or of Hannibal. Later he won't be able to fault her for her concern. For now, Will almost resents the questions, particularly being made to choke on the alcohol. His throat is a lesson in pain and he clumsily sets the bottle down, reaching up to rub his throat for all the good it does.

Something wet and sopping drops onto his ankle and Will looks down to see Buster leaning back, the tennis ball pleasantly chewed and slobbered on. Buster looks a little concerned, and a few of the other dogs do too. Will clears his throat, focuses on them enough to take the ball and throw it again, and only then does he turn back to Beverly.

"No, we're... s'not like that," Will mutters, sounding a little strained at even being made to talk about this. He grimaces. He doesn't know how to phrase what the problem is. "He-- I was... it was weak," he says finally, a little uncomfortably. It also likely doesn't answer Beverly's question. She doesn't know anything about the conversation regarding submission.

" _I_ was weak. Shouldn't have... needed any of that."

* * *

It's like one answer has five more questions popping up in its wake. Will's definitely a little bit of a high maintenance friend, but Beverly is determined and stubborn when she puts her mind to things. She's committed to getting to the bottom of things and she's now headed in the right direction (or so she thinks). Will kind of reminds her of a little brother -- someone that she wants to look out for. She doubts Will would like the comparison, so that's why she isn't going to tell him it.

"Ya know, people have needs," Bev replies with a casual shrug of her shoulder and then goes for another piece of licorice. "Sexual, emotional, social - whatever - people need things from other people, there'z nothing wrong with needing help. I doubt you coerced 'im. So he obviously wanted to go along with it. No man's an island, right?"

She decides to just come out and ask it. "You have issues with your sexuality or something?"

* * *

"Ugh, God," Will mutters back, and he finally just gives in and rests his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. It isn't the smartest idea considering his hands are covered in second-hand dog slobber but the brief reprieve helps him feel a little better anyway. It isn't really a great idea to hide behind his hands and his throat still burns unpleasantly but it's better than the alternative. This isn't a conversation he'd ever expected to have with anyone, much less a co worker.

But he's in it now, and there's no judgement in Beverly's voice. She sounds curious, not condemning. Will sighs and rubs at his face a little harder than he likely needs to.

"Not... no? I don't know. It's never been an issue before," Will mutters back. So _yes_ is likely one of the answers Beverly can assume. It isn't the main problem. It has nothing to do with submitting to Hannibal and how Will had flat-out told him that it wasn't something he thought he'd be interested in one day only to turn around and beg the next. Will feels heat rise in his cheeks again and he groans softly in the back of his throat. If he was more flexible, he'd have hidden his face in his knees and cut out the middleman altogether.

"How'm I s'posed to face him after this?"

* * *

"With your face," Beverly answers without any thought and then promptly laughs a little at her bad joke. She sits back in the chair with a thoughtful expression on her face. While she does have more of a clear picture of what's happened, she's still not entirely certain what exactly is bothering Will so much. The _details_ are still fuzzy to Bev, but she tries to go over what information she's collected. Lecter and Will aren't dating, but something sexual happened that Will insists was consensual. Okay. She doesn't get the impression that there's any romance between them either. But there's some issue with sexuality, as if messing around with a man is out of the norm for Will. Well, she could see how that could be a shock to the system. Will also has a hard time needing things, too. While there's a lot of potentials, Bev has a suspicion that there's still something _else_ Will isn't telling her.

But that's fine. She's done enough prying and Will looks like he could use a break from . "Okay, enough digging from me," she smiles and lifts her half empty glass. "Time to drink more and regret this decision later!"

So, they drink more and snack. She pointedly ignores asking Will anymore personal questions and Will gradually relaxes once he realizes she's relenting in her quest for knowledge. Bev invents her own drinking game where she attempts to learn and remember Will's dogs names and if she gets one wrong, she takes a shot. Needless to say, as the afternoon draws on, driving home is completely out of the question and she sleeps over. All in all, she thinks it's been a good bonding experience.

*** * ***

Hannibal does end up inviting Alana Bloom over for a drink. They first talk casually and catch up. She drinks his beer, he drinks wine and there's a comfortable atmosphere between them. Like the once helpful mentor he was while she was studying, he eases any of her doubts about Will. She's beautiful and smart and Hannibal can see why Will is attracted to her. Hannibal wonders how Will would react if he pursued her. Alana isn't the type to have an affair, so it would have to be a legitimate relationship. Hannibal could manage it, perhaps would even be entertained by her. She _is_ lovely and intriguing in her own way, certainly not a bore, although her altruism could be a bit much. But snatching her up from Will would be petty and while he _could,_ Hannibal is not going to.

He could text Will to check in on him, see how he's faring... It wouldn't be out of the norm as they've texted a few times. Hannibal decides not to in the end. He'll allow Will his time alone to sort things out and hopefully rest some too.

Hannibal's life resumes. He sees his patients, listens to them drone on about their neuroses while he pretends to care and be interested. He attends the opera one evening and, running into an acquaintance, acquires her number. She's a young thing, with long brown hair and big brown eyes. She likes his accent and the smell of his money. She likes hanging off the arm of an older man. It's tolerable. He wonders how she sounds in the throes of passion, if she will whine like Will had...

His house is in order. His office is in order. His mind... would like to wonder about Will Graham and he does so on occasion. When their appointment comes, Hannibal is wearing a maroon dress shirt underneath a dark blue plaid vest and jacket. His hair is in place. He's moved their chairs slightly closer. He's curious if Will will notice the adjustment. He is looking forward to where their conversation goes this evening. But when 7:30 PM comes, Will Graham is nowhere to be seen. Irritation and disappointment flicker through him as he glances at the empty waiting room. He's standing in the door frame, still, and his face is blank. (He stands there for longer than he would like to admit, waiting for Will to come through the door.) Hannibal eventually returns to his office and pours himself a glass of wine. He waits the duration of their appointment. When the customary hour has passed, he puts on his jacket, packs up his things, and gets into the Bentley.

Hannibal drives to Wolf Trap. He listens to no music. His irritability grows as he nears his destination. It's incredibly _rude_ to not show up. Will had also missed his appointment with Sutcliffe. Irresponsible.

If Will was too embarrassed or ashamed to deal with him, Will at least had the option of choosing to send a text message. He gets to Wolf Trap a quarter to ten and quick steps take him to Will's door. He knocks harshly, only mildly trying to rein himself in.

* * *

It's a cowardly fucking thing to do, but Will chooses the easy way out of this mess. While he does turn his phone back on and charge it up that week, he stares at Hannibal's number for a long few minutes every now and then, trying to gain the courage to contact him to cancel the next appointment. Honestly there's a part of Will that is tempted to cancel them all. He has no idea what the fuck he'd been thinking on the side of the road that night and while he aches at the thought of compromising this odd friendship, he aches even more at the thought of ending it. Will is not a man who has many friends and Hannibal is... different. He actually _likes_ Will for one thing. But despite the impulse to text Hannibal and cancel and despite Bev's words lingering in the back of his mind, the thought of facing Hannibal and standing there, awkward and uncertain where the two of them even stand eventually makes his decision for him.

Will Graham has never been a particularly logical man when avoidance is an option. He's far more tempted to listen to _that_ option in the face of something he'd rather not give attention to.

He doesn't text Hannibal. He turns off his phone when the anxiety of how to respond were Hannibal to text him or call him finally mounts higher, but then he thinks of Jack and Alana and every now and then he turns his phone on merely to check that he's not missed any calls. Bev will undoubtedly tell Jack that he's okay if Jack is worried, and Will doesn't particularly want to speak to Alana. He honestly forgets about the appointment with Sutcliffe. To his credit, he doesn't forget to take his medication even if it does make him feel like shit. He's feeling _less_ like shit, though. For the most part, anyway. The nightmares haven't abated. Every now and then Will feels a flicker that is akin to the sensation the stag had once given him, but his hallucinations seem mitigated for now. Whether that's because he's better or due to the fact he's got other shit to worry about is another matter altogether.

The night of his appointment, Will goes completely off the grid. He turns his phone off, downs a few fingers of whiskey, and then sets about taking care of his dogs. He's pretty sure they'd win prizes by now with how often he's brushed them over the past week. He loads up the bathtub with the smaller dogs one by one to carefully bathe them, and resigns himself to heading outside later in order to get at Jack, Max, and Harley.

He loses track of time as he works, but his dogs are happy. By the time ten approaches, Will has almost managed to forget about his _Hannibal_ problem and the guilt therein. Ellie shakes off once she gets out of the bath and Will sighs, spattered from head to toe with water. He knows it's the perils of owning so many dogs, but he finally divests himself of his undershirt, throwing it aside to wash later as she wags her sodden tail at him and he comes at her with a towel. "I should know better by now," he tells her dryly and is rewarded with a lick to his face.

He's just heading downstairs to locate Max when the knock at the door sounds and Will _freezes_. His heart is immediately in his throat and every muscle seizes like he's just been electrocuted. He'd not heard anyone drive up (though with the running water that's hardly a surprise). The knock isn't exactly familiar but he knows it's not Jack. It's very unlikely that anyone who wants to hurt him would knock first, but even as Will looks at the door, he's reasonably sure he knows who it is. For a moment he considers pretending not to be home, but he's not _that_ much of a coward.

Limbs feeling oddly light and cold, Will swallows and then takes a slow, deep breath. He steps across to the doorway as silently as he can, and when he opens the door... yeah. He's not surprised. Will glances up at Hannibal briefly and immediately feels heat try to rush to his face. The night on the side of the road stands out even more when Will can smell his fucking cologne, and he's half tempted to slam the door in Hannibal's face when he feels a small flicker of confused heat slide through him. Ultimately Will knows this isn't something he can just hide away from though, regardless of how appealing that sounds. He focuses fixedly on Hannibal's chin, shifting under the scrutiny. Hannibal doesn't look pleased. Will doesn't blame him.

"You didn't have to drive all the way out here," he mumbles.

* * *

Hannibal would never do this for another patient - _has_ _never_ done this for another patient. Although, technically, Will is not his patient, it _was_ an appointment in his office where _some_ psychiatric care took place. This is the second time Will has missed an appointment, though the first was excusable due to Will's poor health. This one is not. Is it rude to stop in unannounced? Yes, however Will started it and brought this upon himself. First missing Sutcliffe's appointment and then theirs? Not acceptable. Will hadn't called Sutcliffe either. Irresponsible.

Hannibal doesn't care that he looks displeased. No matter how shaken Will is, there's no excuse that an impersonal text couldn't have been sent letting Hannibal know. He will let Will see his displeasure, he will let Will experience it. He hears movement, which at least tells him that Will is not pretending to be asleep (as the lights are on, his car in the driveway). A half undressed Will Graham eventually answers the door, looking _wet_ and smelling atrocious - _wet dog_. Hannibal's nostrils flare, but he keeps off the scowl that wants to make an appearance.

_'You didn't have to drive all the way out here.'_

"Oh, I didn't?" Hannibal replies blandly. "Missing my appointment is one thing, but missing Dr. Sutcliffe's? It reflects poorly on me as I referred you, but I assume you didn't consider that." Hannibal levels him with a look of reproach.

"No call or no text message, Will? Despite what you may think, I _am_ concerned about your well-being, both mentally and physically."

* * *

Hannibal looks disappointed. Even though Will doesn't meet his eyes, the emotion is rolling from Hannibal in waves that Will can't help but pick up on. Hannibal is normally a very composed man, his emotions shielded - likely due to his profession, or perhaps because he's apparently a sadist - but right now, he's not hiding himself away and it's like being awash in an unfamiliar scent. Will fights the urge to squirm, looking from Hannibal's chin down to his chest, then at the floor and back all within the span of a second. He's visibly agitated and a part of him wonders if Hannibal likes this kind of thing. He doesn't _look_ like he likes it. There's honest disappointment there and somehow that's even worse than the anger. Guilt is a very familiar companion.

He opens his mouth to dismiss this, maybe to apologize, he doesn't even know, but before he can so much as get a word out, Hannibal continues and the look of pure surprise on Will's face says it all.

"What?" He asks, and immediately looks down at the bulky watch on his wrist. The date is clear and Will feels something low sink in his stomach.

"Shit." Today _had_ been his appointment. He'd made sure to book it for the same day as his appointment with Hannibal just so he'd already be in the city, but because he'd chickened out of his appointment with Hannibal... fuck. Will has to call Sutcliffe's office tomorrow.

"I... forgot about Sutcliffe. That wasn't-- fuck," Will breathes, and his hand lifts to rub over his face - a familiar gesture by now.

Hannibal's ire doesn't stop there, but despite the reproach clear in his voice, he does sound concerned. Will's jaw clenches harder as guilt makes itself known, and excuses dash immediately against the wall. This is why he hadn't called. He has a hard time saying 'no' to Hannibal when the man clearly gives a shit.

"I-I know. I know you are." Hannibal wouldn't have started the damn massage thing that led to all this shit if he hadn't been concerned. "I just... what the fuck am I supposed to say? To _think?_ After--" he cuts himself off like the words get stuck, but given the embarrassment immediately apparent in his posture, he doesn't really need to finish the thought.

"I didn't mean to make you look bad in front of Sutcliffe. I'll... call him tomorrow."

* * *

From Will's reaction, it's evident that he _hadn't_ actually intended to miss the appointment with Doctor Sutcliffe. This piece of information lessens Hannibal's irritation some. The thought of Will neglecting his health _after_ Hannibal had decided to make it a priority doesn't sit well with him. If Hannibal isn't going to be breaking Will, Will _isn't_ allowed to be foolish with his own well being. The desire to sigh is great, but Hannibal refuses to give into such a dramatic expression. He stands his ground, affecting his face to look disappointed and concerned.

Will looks thoroughly berated, folding in on himself, rubbing his face and of course avoiding eye contact. While Hannibal can appreciate the display of guilt and embarrassment, that Hannibal had to drive out to Wolf Trap and confront him is more than bothersome. He was hoping Will could push through the awkwardness and self-judgment of what had transpired, but apparently not.

"Well, if it's so very difficult to face me, do you raise a white flag in defeat and flee from me? I am able to find you a new therapist," Hannibal says, feigning displeasure at the thought. "Although I should like to pick up my pot if you're finished with its contents."

* * *

"I don't _want_ another therapist," is the response that Will gives without meaning to. The words just kind of slip out and he's left looking somewhat pinched, maybe just shy of anxious. Just because he's been wondering at whether or not he can face Hannibal doesn't mean he wants _Hannibal_ to relent so quickly. That his first instinct had been to suggest a transfer makes something cold and irritated settle in Will's chest. So, naturally, anger is a safe reaction to something he has no control over.

"I'm not raising a fucking white flag anywhere. I just don't know how to- how to _handle_ this. I don't even know what _this_ is!"

There's a soft whine from behind him and Will gives a small start. Looking back over his shoulder, he catches sight of Jack (already named before technically meeting Jack Crawford) with his ears back, tongue working slowly at his lips in a way that speaks of anxiety. Will looks to Jack's right and sees Harley, who also looks uncertain, and the knowledge that his distress is scaring his dogs is just the icing on the cake. Will's jaw clenches and he shoots Hannibal a look that can't seem to decide if it's resentful or apologetic, but he bites back whatever else he'd been about to say. He's not about to terrify his dogs because _he_ can't decide how to be an adult about a situation.

His shoulders are stiff when he turns around, finally relenting to allow Hannibal into the house.

"I have your pot. Come in."

Winston steps in close enough to nudge Will's hand with his nose, and Will does feel a little better at the attention. He briefly buries his fingers in Winston's fur and gives him a small ruffle, then holds a hand out for the others. Though clearly nervous, Jack and Harley immediately shuffle in, tails wagging low, and Will gives them enough attention to get the uncertainty to bleed out of them before he leads the way to the kitchen.

Hannibal's pot is on the counter, washed already. Will's not an _ass_. He _can_ take care of himself, and be responsible on occasion, and he hadn't been about to give Hannibal back a dirty pot when he's got a perfectly good sink. But when Will reaches for it, he pauses and his hands instead come to rest on the counter. He sighs, tightly.

"I should have texted you," Will says lowly, and while it's not an apology, it is acknowledgement. "Everything is... confusing. I didn't know how to handle... whatever that was, last Friday. After... after you calmed me down. I still don't."

* * *

His offer of a transfer does what he intended. Hannibal watches Will blurt out that he doesn't _want_ a new therapist. It's obviously something Will is conflicted on - Will likes that they have a closeness - a friendship - but the new waters he's been splashing about in unnerve him. Hannibal also suspects that Will doesn't _want_ to be abandoned so easily either. The transition from guilt to anger is beautiful and he delights in both causing and seeing it. Unfortunately for Will, the canines seem sensitive to the raised voice and when Will glances back, he seems to rein himself back.

Hannibal had assumed that Will wasn't truly ready to call it quits - at least not in his presence. For Will, the prospect of a new therapist is probably more daunting than working through Will's concerns. Will's only had a taste of what Hannibal could offer and while it's piqued Will's interest, it's also unsettling. Most new things in life hold a level of trepidation, so Hannibal isn't surprised that there is some backlash. Will's also not accustomed to being treated well and holds preconceived judgments about submission and masochism. It complicates this.

Hannibal enters Will's home, unbuttoning his overcoat and draping it over a chair. He smoothes out his vest and tries very hard to remain neutral as the Zoe rodent struts over to him and smells at his jacket before wagging her tail in remembrance. Little mongrel... Hannibal bends down at pats her on the head as Will seems to work on calming down the other group of dogs.

 

When they arrive to the kitchen, Hannibal sees the familiar cookware, washed and waiting to be dropped off or collected. He wonders if Will had even attempted to try and talk himself into coming this evening, or if it was out of the question as soon as he'd woken up. He watches Will reach for the pot and not quite make it, his hands coming to feel at the counter's edge.

"As I'm sure you're aware, hiding doesn't solve anything, Will," Hannibal replies calmly, letting none of his former disappointment come through. He's honestly pleasantly taken aback that Will is attempting to talk _right now_. It bodes well. He approaches slowly, coming to stand next to Will and resting a hand on his shoulder.

"What's troubling you? Did you not feel better under my touch and instruction?" He lets his hand squeeze at the tense muscles underneath, a hint of a massage.

* * *

On his own, it had been easy to work himself up into an absolute. Painting Hannibal with a certain brush had seemed easiest, and regardless of what Beverly had said when she'd come over, Will had been content to stay in the comfortable bubble of confusion and anxiety and deep humiliation. He'd found it easy to think about Hannibal pushing him into it, into Hannibal being demanding, perhaps even bordering on cruel were Will to confront him about it.

Like this, with Hannibal seeming to fill up the darker corners of Will's house, it's difficult to read _any_ of his imagined concerns in the man now. Hannibal - despite his clear disappointment - stands tall and controlled and his concern is all Will feels. In a sense he craves it, but in another he wishes to lash out at it and shove it away. Hannibal is complicated. This whole goddamned thing is complicated.

Will doesn't really _mean_ to start this conversation, but this is just what they do. Hannibal talks, then Will sometimes talks, and then they fall into conversation, comfortable or not. The only difference is that as of late, the sheer level of pretentious bullshit has lessened. Hannibal's been careful to talk to him like a person. Will silently suspects the encephalitis as his reasoning but as he's been exhausted for weeks, he isn't about to complain.

As he stands at the counter, Hannibal comes up beside him. Will merely looks down at the flat surface, at the way his hands press against the edge. He doesn't look at Hannibal and that's easier as he draws in a deeper, steadying breath. Beside him, Hannibal speaks and Will ducks his head at the shift in Hannibal's tone. He no longer sounds disappointed, merely concerned and curious. Will studies the pattern on his counter and nods slightly.

"I know," he says, but before he can say more, Hannibal's hand settles on his shoulder and Will tenses.

The thought of what _else_ that hand has done brings a small flush of heat and embarrassment to his cheeks and his jaw works around it as he tries to shove it away. This is the problem. He doesn't know how to deal with Hannibal, but more than that, he doesn't know how to deal with his own reactions. When a shiver slides through him at the barest _hint_ of a massage, Will scowls like he's personally affronted with his own reaction. He swallows.

"I know hiding doesn't solve anything. I was just... trying to buy myself some time. To- to think. To avoid," he adds, because this is perhaps more accurate.

Hannibal's hand is warm on his bare shoulder. And how fucked up is it that Will's actually drawing comfort from it while talking about the very thing causing his discomfort? Will frowns but continues. He's here anyway. Might as well.

"I have never... reached out to someone when I get overloaded. It's... personal. Visceral... Vulnerable. Something I handle on my own. I don't like people seeing me like that. Much less someone I actually respect." Will's lips twist in a wry grin that doesn't reach his eyes. "So having _everyone_ see, and then... then _asking_ you," begging him, "to help... I don't know. It was weak. _I_ was weak. And then with the-- the car..."

Will makes a small sound and leans down, pressing his elbows to the countertop as he briefly buries his face in his hands, rubbing hard at his face like he could simply wipe away his shame.

"I just... I don't know what the fuck is wrong with me. Beyond the obvious."

* * *

Does Will see himself as a victim that Hannibal has preyed on? Hannibal is fairly certain that that isn't the case, or at least not right now as it's harder to vilify someone when you're in their presence. If Will were more stable, he'd likely succeed at blaming Hannibal for introducing this twist to their friendship. But Will isn't. Will is vulnerable and Will is easily bogged down by guilt. It's this tendency that Hannibal is ultimately exploiting.

Hannibal observes the slight heat that floods into Will's cheeks at his touch. It must be very disconcerting for Will as he tries to work through his reactions. He enjoys the touch - craves it - and yet he doesn't want to _need_ it. That Will's body finds pleasure and contentment from Hannibal - a man, a friend, his therapist - strikes Will as wrong and off. He listens carefully as Will voluntarily speaks. That Will _is_ sharing and not shutting down in significant. Hannibal's hand continues slowly massaging at Will's shoulder. He can understand that Will had felt distinctly uncomfortable and exposed at the crime scene. After all, Will _had_ put on a show for them. Perhaps the other audience members hadn't been as receptive toward it, but Hannibal enjoyed it immensely. Men are ingrained from a young age to think badly on themselves for needing help. In Will's case, he's likely never _had_ much help. Hannibal hopes to change that.

Will seems to deflate, his head leaning down and hiding his face in his hands. Hannibal's own head tilts to the side a few degrees at the image of defeat Will is displaying. It's certainly stunning, but Hannibal knows he must come swoop in and offer comfort. He considers himself rather adept at piecing Will back together now.

"It's not weak to ask for help, Will. It's a very human characteristic," Hannibal insists, but his voice is gentle. His hand slides to the back of Will's neck and he grips hard so that Will can _feel_ it. "And _I_ respect you more after everything I’ve witnessed and experienced with you. It's no simple task what you do and there's nothing wrong with responding to me as you have. Is there a reason you feel like you ought to judge yourself as you have?" Hannibal steps closer, crowding into Will's space. He's nearly pinning him again.

"Do you desire punishment, Will?"

* * *

It's everything that's been building since that night on the side of the road, maybe since he'd sidled into Hannibal's office a week ago and let him pull his hair until he'd calmed. It isn't that Will doesn't know that there are benefits of a consensual arrangement between parties provided it doesn't go awry, but he's seen so many scenes where so many things _have_ gone wrong that it's hard to detach. Not everyone who enjoys aspects of submission and masochism are deviants (he's done a little reading in his whiskey-laden moments) but it all seems to stem from control. Either too much of it or a lack of it, or a desire to simply cast it aside and let someone else take care of it for awhile. Hannibal has done that three times so far and Will can't deny that in each instance, it's helped. He just... he doesn't know if he _wants_ it to help. What does it say about him if he can't handle his own crazy better than Hannibal can?

Will's mind is in the process of compiling reasons why the moment at the crime scene had been weak and while he's not spiraling, the whiskey in his system is enough to make his frown actually _look_ distressed instead of sheltered. He hadn't had a lot to drink but alcohol still cuts through the bullshit and can make him honest. Just another way to hide in the end, isn't it? But then Hannibal cuts into his thoughts, voice gentle, and his hand slides over to the back of Will's neck. Instead of touching, he _grips_ , and Will feels an answering jolt of relief and security and alarm all at the same time. He can't deny that the grip helps to focus him, but he doesn't _want_ it to.

Hannibal respects him, he says. He tells him there's nothing wrong with responding as he has (Will silently wonders if Hannibal means the submission or getting hard) and he cuts immediately to the heart of things. Will doesn't even notice Hannibal stepping closer at first; he's too caught on the fact that Hannibal can see how much he's judging himself for his lapse in control, for reacting as he had, for risking a federal investigation because of his crazy, _again_. And also for the way he'd behaved against Hannibal's car. Desperate for touch, for grounding, for anything Hannibal had given him. Mortification rises inside of him like blood welling from a fresh wound and Will swallows. He doesn't know what he needs; he doesn't know that he even deserves whatever that might be. He doesn't even know Hannibal's question holds water until something hot and guilt-ridden twists in his stomach at the suggestion.

Will closes his eyes. It's happening again, Hannibal just effortlessly taking control, grabbing his frayed layers and peeling back what he's desperately trying to hide. There's a part of him that wants to jerk away, to get clarification, to talk about what this is and what to expect, to set _boundaries_ , but the rest of him has narrowed in on Hannibal's suggestion. Will's already been punishing himself over his lapse in control. He's not been eating as much, has cut himself off, and Beverly's visit had felt unearned. When he opens his eyes, it's just to send Hannibal a long look, conflicted, complicated, distressed, and a dozen other nuanced emotions. In the end though, Will only nods, a pitiful thing in the face of brutal honesty. He's got a monopoly on instability and self-loathing.

* * *

While Hannibal is amenable to the idea of providing punishment, he knows they both have different reasons as to _why_ Will deserves such treatment. It's simple for Hannibal - Will was rude in not alerting him to the fact that he wouldn't be attending their appointment. That's Will’s only transgression in his book.

Will, however, is drowning in self-loathing and judgment about a vast many topics. Will is ashamed of his instability, his _inability_ to hold himself together while in front of coworkers and Jack at the crime scene. Will is ashamed and embarrassed of needing and _asking_ for help - for reaching out - effectively begging Hannibal to help him after the breakdown. Where does Will's arousal and orgasm rank in comparison? Hannibal is unsure. The incident at the car - although at risk for being observed - was private at least. Even so, Hannibal knows there was a layer of humiliation present when Will had answered that he wanted Hannibal's hand to touch him. Most of their interactions and conversational topics from a week ago likely are eating at Will. Submission. Masochism. Need. Stability. Touch. Intimacy. Sadism. Control.

When Will turns around, Hannibal's face is calm and controlled. Will is lovely in his suffering, in the anguish that is written over his features, but Hannibal finds that his initial irritation and disappointment have greatly subsided. More damage control is to be done. (This bothers him far less than he would of thought.)

"I will not punish you for the very things that I find captivating, Will," Hannibal tells him. It's tempting, it really is, but he will not have Will connect _need_ to a behavior that is worthy of punishment.

"You have already been punishing yourself, I assume." Will _looks_ thinner. His mental distress bleeding over into the physical. Likely not eating enough and drinking too much. Poor sleep, too.

"Come here." Hannibal doesn't ask permission as he backs up a little to allow himself room. His hands come to Will's shoulders and he eases Will around. Hannibal doesn't seek eye contact. When Will is facing him, Hannibal pulls him into a tight hug, arms wrapping around Will's lower back. This... Hadn't exactly been what he was planning on ever doing for Will. Hannibal is perfectly capable of providing comfort, but it's usually reserved for affairs and relationships.

"If I _were_ to ever punish you, it wouldn't be from expressing need or because you were unstable."

* * *

Hannibal's mentioned punishment and Will isn't sure what he's expecting, but he's too tired to argue it. Though conflicted and wishing fervently that they could discuss this - whatever _this_ is - the self-destructive part of his personality finds the idea of Hannibal's punishment appealing. He doesn't know what that punishment will be, but given Hannibal's recent penchant for pulling his hair and pinning him against things, Will can guess. Or maybe Hannibal won't do that simply because he suspects Will likes it. Confused, uncomfortable, and feeling raw from the last few weeks, Will looks at Hannibal uncertainly.

So when Hannibal says he _won't_ punish him - not for something he 'finds captivating' - Will frowns immediately in confusion and something stubborn, something that makes him want to leave so he doesn't have to hear what Hannibal means. To his credit, he stays, though his expression blanks in a very telling way when Hannibal voices his suspicion that Will has already been punishing himself. He wants to argue, but even he knows it's true. He glances down at the counter instead, and he only realizes how _close_ Hannibal had been when Hannibal suddenly steps back. Will's frown deepens but he doesn't fight it when Hannibal reaches over and directs him into turning around.

He's not expecting the way Hannibal reaches out to him, and he's definitely not expecting to be drawn in without hesitation. Will tenses immediately and he's not sure what he's expecting at first, but being _hugged_ is not it. At first he's simply stunned. Hannibal has never touched him like this before. A hand to his shoulder, a half-massage, fingers in his hair, yes, but never with the intent to comfort. That's what this is, after all. This is Hannibal offering _comfort_. Not release, not pressing him against a car and touching him without _touching_ him. This is something completely different. This is care, not punishment, and Will struggles with it. His muscles twitch minutely as he fights with himself, but in the end he can't help but give in. Will can't remember the last time someone hugged him properly.

He's tentative at first, as if expecting Hannibal to tell him to stay still, but when no reprimand comes, it isn't long before Will has his arms around Hannibal in return. His cheek presses to soft fabric and he grips it so hard in back that Hannibal _has_ to be about to shove him away. He doesn't. "Why are you doing this?" Will asks. His voice sounds rough but thin, and there's so much he wants to ask, but this question seems the most important. He turns his head, pressing his forehead to Hannibal's shoulder, and buries his face against fabric that probably costs more than his whole goddamned house.

"This isn't sadism, Hannibal. You can't be getting anything out of this, so why..." Will trails off. He swallows. "Why do you _care?"_

* * *

He can easily picture himself punishing Will one day. Hannibal can see Will bearing it, his body straining and trembling as Hannibal used a belt on the back of his thighs or even his palm on Will's ass. He can imagine making Will count each lash, a higher pitched whine, and how Will would grimace and fidget against the onslaught. In a different vein, how would Will react to being told to kneel in a corner and stay silent? To be ignored completely while in Hannibal's presence? If Will is a masochist, corporal punishment is likely to not be as effective, but it could maybe depend on the severity and if the spanking held a certain connotation.

But now is not the time. Hannibal is not going to reinforce that Will's faulty assumptions and harsh judgments deserve a reprimand. His interests can be put aside tonight. Hannibal chooses to give physical comfort and support instead - to _care_. Will undoubtedly realizes what this hug means, how it differs from both the previous casual brushes and heated press to Will's groin or pull to his hair. Hannibal lets Will test the hold, he lets him squirm, and eventually Will comes to allow the embrace. (Hannibal suspects he actually likes the initial struggle Will puts up, it makes the allowance feel sweeter.)

Will's arms snake around him, grip tight, almost frantic. He's essentially clinging to Hannibal like a floatation device. Such an experience would normally bring up a flicker of disdain, but Hannibal is surprised to find himself alright with it. At least Will isn't crying or sniffling. The questions, although expected, are not answered immediately. Hannibal considers his response carefully.

"Am I not also a friend, Will?" Hannibal says and it's the truth. It may be a somewhat one-sided relationship, but he doesn't _only_ see Will as an outlet for his sadism. "Friends provide comfort and in a dominant-submissive arrangement, caring for one's submissive can be rewarding as well."

* * *

"I don't _need_ care," Will snaps back immediately, a roughness in his voice that seems to be bred from stubbornness. He doesn't think about the words, not in any direct context. He merely knows that 'care' is not something he has ever been accustomed to. He hardly knows what to do with the idea of it, and despite how hypocritical it is to claim such a thing to Hannibal while holding him so tightly that it nears desperation, Will can't help his immediate reaction.

He'd grown up in the south. His mother had left when he'd been young, and while his father had done the best he could, there had always been a disconnect between them. He hadn't connected to his son, hadn't known what to do with a twitchy, over-sensitive kid who kept reading his emotions and getting into fights because he couldn't keep his mouth shut. The only time they'd been comfortable had been when Will's father had taken him fishing. He knows it's part of the reason he likes it now. It means that care has never been in his particular equation. His father hadn't been a hugger, and had used southern discipline when it had been necessary. Will doesn't fault him for his distance, but it _is_ the way Will had grown up. Injuries are to be sucked up and dealt with, showing need is weak, and a firm slap to the back beats a hug any day.

Except that's not true, because despite how vehemently Will claims that he doesn't need care, he feels less likely to shake apart with his face pressed to the fabric of Hannibal's suit jacket. Hannibal's arms are warm and comforting and Will does feel embarrassed that this is helping so much, but despite his internal struggle, he eventually just presses closer. He doesn't cry; Hannibal doesn't need to worry about that. He merely sets his jaw, closes his eyes tight, and soaks up the touch and comfort like he'll never get the chance again.

When he finds his voice again, the vicious edge has eased from it. It's still clipped, still somewhat stubborn, but it's harder to shake apart when Hannibal's breathing is so steady. Will subconsciously starts matching his own to it.

"I... people don't... generally want to help me," he says, not an apology for snapping, but an awkward explanation. "I'm not used to it." Will breathes in deep and tightens his grip enough that his arms start to ache a little, but Hannibal is firm and solid and Will gets the feeling that even if he were to try to viciously shove him away, he'd be able to resist it. It's calming for some reason.

Like this, pressed close, some of the fight begins to leave him in small increments. He's never had anyone hug him for this long before. As awkward as it feels, it's also helpful, and though it takes him some time to get there, Will finally can't help his curiosity. He's stubborn but he's not stupid. If it looks, quacks, and swims like a duck, it's probably a fucking duck.

"Is... if I were to- to agree... to an _arrangement,_ what would be expected of me?" As soon as the question is out, Will wants to sink through the floor, but Beverly's words have apparently had _some_ impact on him. Will draws in a slower breath, then rushes on. "It helps. I don't know what's fucking wrong with me, but this - all the shit you keep doing... I'm not blind. I would have fallen apart at the crime scene without you. I could have hurt someone. But I don't know what you want me to _do_. I don't know what you expect or what the catch is, or anything."

* * *

Will's immediate retort comes as no surprise and Hannibal isn't put off by it. He simply holds Will and Will, despite his snapping insistence, doesn't even try to break free. Yes, this man in his arms does _need_ care and comfort and while Hannibal has never considered himself to be interested in the needy, perhaps Will is an exception. (He's only been genuinely interested in providing compassion and care once, many years ago to his sister. With their parents absent, Hannibal had been the one to provide both scoldings and comfort, filling more of the role of a parent than simply a brother. He'd gathered her up in his arms and rocked her small form until her crying had abated. _There_ , _there_... Hannibal had done so with Abigail Hobbs recently too.) He remains still and doesn't rock Will. Child? Patient? Friend? Submissive? They're merely words and labels and roles that can blend and mix - or at least they do when it concerns Will Graham.

Will, thankfully, pulls himself back together when he tries to explain himself to Hannibal. Hannibal knows Will isn't helped often. He's not touched. He's not understood. Will's guarded and prickly nature make it difficult for such things to occur, so some of the problems are exacerbated by himself. Nevertheless, Hannibal has been persistent and patient enough where he's allowed access to see Will's need and respond accordingly. (He will be the paddle, the life preserver, the hand that pulls him back onto the dock. No drowning, not yet at least.)

"Nothing is wrong with you, Will," Hannibal soothes, voice warm and soft. "As I've said before, finding comfort and a measure of peace in pain and submission isn't unheard of. You're not the only one with such proclivities." Hannibal pauses and lets those words settle. "As for an arrangement, we still remain friends, but if you are feeling like you need or want that particular dynamic, we transition into such a thing both as consenting parties. You're certainly allowed to refuse any instructions I give or stop an activity you're troubled by. We explore what you like and do not like together, although there can often be an element of pushing through discomfort."

* * *

Will honestly can't believe he's thinking about this, but the unfortunate downside to seeing damning evidence near every day is that he can't shut off his mind when it suits him. Just as he'd been able to read regret and anger in Philippa's killer through her crime scene, so too can he read his own need and grounding in his own reactions. Hannibal is keeping him centered. He has since the moment Will had met him. This is just a different way of approaching it. It doesn't stop him from wanting to take the words back, but it doesn't have to. Will simply closes his eyes tight and breathes in the familiar scent of Hannibal's cologne or aftershave or whatever it is, and he rests exactly where he is. He's hiding and he knows it, and the reality burns. It doesn't change anything.

Hannibal is quick to reassure and Will finds himself wondering if the man is even capable of saying a bad word about anyone. He closes his eyes tighter, humiliated by his own lack of control, his own need, but Hannibal still doesn't seem to find anything wrong with it. His voice is warm and controlled, his tone soft, and Will hates that it actually does help him relax. Hannibal's voice and accent are soothing and he can feel the vibrations of it from where he's pressed close. It's tactile and gentle and he's grateful for it, but not quite as grateful as he is when Hannibal gives him time to consider his words before he moves on to give Will the answer to a question that's been burning inside of him since the moment he'd realized submission had _helped_.

There's no sneer in Hannibal's voice as he kindly lays out the groundwork. Will listens, feeling oddly comforted by the thought that he and Hannibal will remain friends. He doesn't have many of those to go around. That he can refuse instruction _also_ helps answer a few of his questions, and that he doesn't have to know exactly what he likes instantly - that he and Hannibal can find a way through it together - helps to ease even more of his concern. By the time Hannibal trails off, Will still feels like shit, still feels weak for the fact that he apparently _needs_ this, but that Hannibal isn't judging him goes a long way.

He's quiet for a long few moments, thoughtful, and then he finally nods. It's so small that had his forehead not been pressed to Hannibal's shoulder, it's likely he wouldn't have been able to feel it, but it's there.

"So it... doesn't change anything. Not outside of when we... transition into _this?_ We're still friends. We still talk normally outside of those times?"

* * *

It may not be a pleasant realization for Will - that there could be benefit to submission - but Will has collected enough anecdotal evidence by now. Hannibal had thought it might take a little longer to get to this point, but Jack beckoning Will out to the crime scene had thrust them further along this trajectory. This time Hannibal didn't even have to meddle. Jack had done it for him. How thoughtful.

This close he can smell the dog's and what must be a gentle soap or shampoo. Likely Will had been bathing the dogs this evening. Immediately, Hannibal wonders about bathing Will. It's not something he would push for anytime soon as there's a clear note of vulnerability in allowing one to _wash_ you while being naked. It's intimate in an entirely different way than sleeping nude next to another or even taking part in sexual activities.

Will's hands are gripping onto the fabric of the suit jacket while Hannibal's own hold is merely firm and secure. It will take time and effort for Will to reframe his faulty thinking. Allowing care and acknowledging need can be a lifelong struggle for some, but then there were others who were exceedingly needy and all too eager to state their demands. (Natalie, much to Hannibal's dismay, was shaping up to be one of the latter. Already from a few text messages he could see she would be a handful.)

Hannibal _feels_ the nod and he loosens his hold to allow his right hand to rub soothingly against the small of Will's back. Skin against skin.

"Yes, we would still be friends and talk normally outside of the times we indulge in our arrangement. You can choose when they begin and end, although if I see you hesitating I may take the lead and suggest. It's likely prudent to select both a safeword and a word or phrase that signal you would like to transition into the arrangement as well."

* * *

Skin against skin. With Hannibal's hands still, he grows used to the touch, but when Hannibal carefully rubs his back, Will is reminded of just how much contact they're both indulging in now. There's a side of him that wants to pull away, shying away from the show of comfort, but Will doesn't. Like a feral dog suspicious over an offering of food, he eases in and tentatively bites and then withdraws. Hannibal's hold stays firm and with each additional bite, Will's unease begins to abate. He doesn't feel like he'll be able to relax for quite some time, but this is a start. As ridiculous as he feels right now, the contact does help. The critical, sneering voice in his head seems quieter now and it remains quiet the longer Hannibal speaks to him.

He silently files away everything Hannibal is saying. Nothing else needs to change. It will be up to him to stop and start unless Hannibal sees him hesitating (Will silently thinks that means 'unless Hannibal sees him trying to punish himself') in which case Hannibal will take the lead. The thought of Hannibal deciding is comforting but Will can't deny that he doesn't want Hannibal to _always_ decide. He might not be as proud as some, but he does have his pride and while he's apparently submissive (he still hates the word) it isn't a state of being he wants to be in constantly.

But like this, when he's shaken... maybe it wouldn't be so bad.

The idea of a _safeword_ gives Will pause. By its very existence it means Hannibal likely intends to do something that will make Will say 'stop' and not want Hannibal to actually stop. He stills and his mind races unbidden to that night against the car, with Hannibal asking him if he'd liked the idea of being forced. Hesitantly Will frowns but after a moment he does give it a thought. He knows enough to know that this should be something unique. Something with meaning that he won't say elsewhere. For a brief moment he considers 'Philippa' but the thought of using her in this makes his stomach turn. Instead Will thinks back, trying to think of something, and the word that he settles on gives him pause. But, well... it _is_ unlikely to come up in conversation.

"Mongoose," Will says after a moment, though he sounds hesitant about it. "I remember-- at the hotel. As for the, um... as for how to tell you..." Will's lips twist in a wry expression. He wants to know why he can't just say something like 'now' but Hannibal has always been a man for theatrics. And once he thinks about it a little more, there _is_ a phrase that Hannibal keeps using that could suffice, though it does make his face heat.

"'Good boy'. Does that work? You keep... you keep saying it."

* * *

Entering into such an arrangement while maintaining a separation to the friendship doesn't always work out. Hannibal has had to cut off play partners who got too clingy or let the lines blur. Will is completely new to this and there is a greater risk of him becoming confused or unable to adhere to boundaries. Hannibal knows this is an ill-advised venture. It's something they would likely have to keep hidden as well. Despite the numerous concerns, Hannibal knows he won't rescind the offer. He wants to explore this aspect with Will, to see just how far he can push him. He knows there's a repressed darkness, but what else is lurking below?

Will's choice of a safeword is pleasantly surprising. _Mongoose_. Hannibal had mentioned it during their second meeting, over breakfast in a hotel room. That it struck Will and has stayed with him... is pleasing. Will had also insisted that they kept their relationship _professional_ and that he didn't find Hannibal interesting. A familiar smugness wants to creep in at the memory, but Hannibal remains on task.

_Good boy..._

Hannibal smiles. With Will so close, both their expressions cannot be seen by one another (he doubts very much that Will is smiling). "' _Mongoose_ ' will signal a complete cessation to whatever activity we may be doing, and the phrase ' _good_ _boy_ ' will be used when you would like or find it helpful to submit to me. When we discuss these matters or I check in with you, I ask that you are honest with me. It will make it much easier to determine what is effective and what misses the mark. As this is new for you, I won't insist on proper protocol and the like. You won't have to call me _Sir_ , for example." Hannibal's tone is almost educational.

His hands slide to Will's shoulders and lever him away so he can look at Will's face. Likely it's not what Will wants currently, but Hannibal doesn't care.

"Would you like to be my good boy _now_ , Will?" The smile is gone from Hannibal's face. His expression is calm and assessing. Will may decline, but Hannibal thinks it will be a yes. He hopes it will be a yes.

* * *

As soon as the words are out, Will wants to take them back. _Good boy_ , he thinks, _really?_ Expression creasing in a small grimace, Will closes his eyes tighter as he hides his face against Hannibal's shoulder, heat creeping down his neck. He doesn't know why he'd suggested that; he only knows that up until he'd said it, it had sounded like a decent idea. He no longer thinks it is. It's showing Hannibal his hand. It's the equivalent to rolling up his sleeves and letting Hannibal check him for hidden aces. it's telling Hannibal that the praise - what you say to a fucking _dog_ \- makes him feel settled or something. That it's made enough of an impact on him to remember it. But the words are out and Will can't take them back.

In truth, he almost expects Hannibal to chuckle but when Hannibal doesn't and instead just carries on - business as usual - Will isn't surprised. Of course Hannibal isn't going to mock him, even for something so stupid. He's too polite for that. Still, the lack of mockery does help and Will takes a moment to refocus on Hannibal, on what he's saying. He nods as Hannibal talks to show he's listening, and silently files the information away, grateful for the reiteration. _Mongoose_ is a full stop and _good boy_ is a request. That isn't difficult. What is difficult is Hannibal's next request: honesty. Hannibal wants him to be honest about what he likes and doesn't like, but the thought feels uncomfortably vulnerable. Will shifts, his hold in Hannibal's jacket loosening and tightening reflexively to calm himself, and he's just managed to scrape out a small nod when Hannibal adds the fucking cherry onto the goddamned sundae.

 _Sir_. Mild as Hannibal's tone is, Will feels the power dynamic shift acutely. Hannibal carefully eases back to look at him and Will can't quite school his expression into safety in time. The thought of using a title to address Hannibal in these moments feels thrilling and unsettling in equal measure. Again, Will feels out of his depth and the urge to withdraw and back out does flare. There's just enough intrigue lingering to change his mind, and so when Hannibal asks him - point blank - if he wants something _now_ , Will pauses. He looks conflicted for only a moment but after a tentative check-in with himself (Hannibal wants his honesty) he does still feel rocky. The contact had helped but if Hannibal can center him like he had at the scene... doesn't Will owe it to himself to try?

(A small voice in the back of his mind suggests that maybe he's curious, that maybe ripping off the band-aid is better than baby steps.)

Will wets suddenly dry lips and after an uncertain moment, he draws his hands back from Hannibal's shoulders with extreme reluctance. "I... think so. Do I get to ask what to expect, or is that not something that's done? And-- wait. Isn't there-- don't you need a word too?"

* * *

While Hannibal has dabbled in a few partner's 'daddy' kinks he does have his limits. He's not at all interested in infantilism, but he's fairly certain Will has no interest in that kind of paraphilia. Referring to himself as Daddy, praising or punishing a good girl or good boy - Hannibal doesn't mind going that far. He can understand the psychology of wanting paternal attention and caretaking, so it's not a leap to make. (He's been a parent before...) However, Hannibal is careful about it. He once played with a woman who liked to dress up as a little girl. Hannibal would braid her hair and let her sit in his lap, and while it was fine for a limited duration, the sub became needy and Hannibal had shut that down promptly.

Hannibal also knows that dogs are often referred to as good girl/boy. So that Will has chosen this phrase is quite amusing to Hannibal. As much as Hannibal likes order and discipline, he hasn't often pushed protocol being overly important in his arrangements. He assumes throwing rules at Will early on and emphasizing the power imbalance in such a way is not smart. They can revisit the terms later.

He watches Will lick his lips and he has the urge to see Will suck his fingers. Hannibal wants to feel Will's tongue against his thumb, to run his fingertips over Will's canines - to see Will's cheeks hollow and suck--

The fantasy comes to a close as he opens his mouth to answer Will, but then the next question comes. A word? A safeword for _him_? Hannibal frowns at the insinuation that he would _need_ one. He swallows. He ignores his irritation. Fine. He supposes it's only fair.

"' _Aegis_ ' will be my safeword then. And I think the fun and excitement is in _not_ knowing what to expect. Are you ready to begin?"

* * *

Aegis. Protection and support, with a classical mythology hook. Will doesn't know mythology the way Hannibal undoubtedly does but he remembers something about a shield connected to Athena - or Zeus, maybe Zeus - and the word aegis in close connection to it. He doesn't ask, he merely files the word away like he's clearing a space in his mind, dusting off the corners and clearing out a neat space so that the word can break through a haze in the event of an emergency. He doesn't miss Hannibal's frown - Will is looking at his chin, so he's looking close enough to his lips to see - and he doesn't miss the slight bob to Hannibal's throat. Irritation, maybe? Is that not something he's supposed to ask?

Hannibal doesn't snap at him, though. Will's reasonably sure that he could likely get away with breaking Hannibal's windows and the man would still just sigh and let it slide. Hannibal doesn't seem to _do_ violence--

Except he's a sadist. Except Hannibal had reached into an open wound to keep a man alive. Except he'd killed Budge in self defense-- Will's mind lingers on that last one unbidden. Hannibal had been injured. He still doesn't know the extent of those injuries or if he still carries any scars. Hannibal isn't the type of man to make such a scene. The memory of the look on his face when Will had walked into his office, the soft. 'I was worried you were dead' said so honestly... does Hannibal still blame himself for that? Is this whole grounding thing an attempt to make amends? One frown on Hannibal's lips and Will's mind is off and running until he manages to wrestle it back with difficulty.

He comes back to himself in time to realize Hannibal has asked him a question and Will hastily backtracks to replay what had been said. _Not knowing_ is exciting - he's not convinced, but he doesn't say so - and Hannibal wants to know if he's ready. The 'yes' is on Will's lips. He's already opening his mouth to say so when he remembers his dogs.

Immediately Will glances to the side and a flush of heat slides through him when he sees Winston lingering in the doorway. He watches his tail start to wag when he sees Will and while Will knows Winston doesn't know enough to understand _this_ , it's still awkward. Will thinks back to the last time they'd been fed, and to when he'd last let them out.

"I-- um. I think so. Just- should I let the dogs out?"

* * *

Hannibal can't think of ever needing to use a safeword - he's never given one in the past at least. It likely brings Will a measure of comfort to think they _both_ have one, less risky and less of an imbalance between them. So, Hannibal will humor Will. He'll have a safeword too. It's still amusing and he almost wants to ask Will what he thinks he could do to prompt him into needing to use it. Hannibal doesn't. It would be cruel and Will's still in a rather delicate state.

Right now Hannibal needs to not antagonize him. He needs to assure Will, needs to prove, once again, to be what Will needs. Hannibal has few concerns in this; he's fairly confident that he will be able to adjust accordingly to Will's needs. Reading Will's responses - especially early on - will be paramount. Will likely hasn't thought on any of this before. Will won't have much of an idea what he likes or doesn't like, so Hannibal will be introducing him to many new experiences. The thought holds an appeal.

Hannibal waits for Will to tell him yes, a sliver of eagerness present within himself. It's been too long since he's played. This is what Hannibal tells himself. He's been playing with Jack and the FBI, yes - playing as the Copycat Killer - but it's not the same. He's the only one able to draw enjoyment from his actions. In this, he has Will to draw responses out of. Will's mouth opens, but then his blue eyes are darting away and Hannibal feels a fissure of annoyance at the mention of the dogs.

Patience. Hannibal doesn't need to glance back to see what Will is looking at. He knows it one of the canines.

"If they _need_ to be let out, you may let them out," Hannibal answers. "But if you're simply uncomfortable with the idea they may be watching and hearing you, then _no_."

Hannibal doesn't care if they have an audience. He's fairly certain it's the latter that's bothering Will, but best be safe to check. He wants him to squirm and have another layer of embarrassment present.

* * *

Will plays the tape to the end. He thinks about what will happen if he doesn't let the dogs out. All he really has to go on is the memory of what Hannibal had done to him the last two times and Will remembers enough of his own reactions to know that making sounds will likely draw his dogs' attention. He doesn't even want to imagine what kind of fresh hell it might be to let Hannibal instruct him into a telling peace only to get nudged by a cold, concerned nose. Even worse if Will winds up aroused (which he fervently tells himself he _won't)._ He doesn't want the same thing to happen. So when Hannibal gives him permission to take the dogs out - not that he _needs_ it - Will nods and begins to draw himself back, turning away from Hannibal and drawing in breath to whistle his dogs over.

Then Hannibal finishes the thought and Will's breath catches. He goes still. Sliding a sharp look at Hannibal, caught off guard with the first real glimpse into Hannibal doing something _to_ make Will uncomfortable instead of the opposite, he frowns. He's still for a few moments; maybe Hannibal has done this before? If he has, Will can't think of it. (A small voice hisses something in warning in the back of his mind, a hidden puzzle piece beginning to flip itself over, but he's too focused on this moment, on his own reaction to really register it.) Then his throat flexes and bobs in a small swallow and Will nods slowly. He takes a step back, his back up against the kitchen counter where it had been before.

Across the room, Winston looks confused and Will shifts guiltily. A part of him wants to reassure his dogs, or to tell Hannibal he doesn't get to make that decision for him, but for now he decides to allow it. He can still remember the tight warmth of Hannibal's arms, the way Hannibal had opted for care first despite Will's desire to be punished for being so fucking weak. He doesn't know what to expect, but maybe that's for the best. So instead he just nods again and darts a quick look up at Hannibal's eyes before he looks down at his chest, finding it safer to look there.

"I guess I'm ready, then. What... um. How... how do we do this?" He's only ever _needed_ Hannibal to do it. It feels weird to just start from scratch, when his mind is less clouded by panic and need.

* * *

He can care, he can offer support, embrace Will and stroke his back. Hannibal can go through the motions and sometimes even mean them - or at least some small portion of them. (He suspects he does have a growing sentiment toward Will.) Still, he is a sadist at heart. Hannibal hadn't been lying. This won't be all relief and grounding for Will. There will activities that Will likely finds distressing and uncomfortable on all domains - the physical, mental and sexual. Hannibal wants him to stretch and bend, though. No growth or breakthroughs would happen if Will let himself hideaway and stay within his comfort zone. Any good therapist will seek to push...

Hannibal meets Will's look with no remorse or shame. He's calm and confident in his answer. Hannibal doesn't want the dogs to make a mess while they're engaged, but he certainly isn't going to let Will hide his activities either. The frown that pulls at Will's mouth is a lovely sight as Hannibal watches Will consider the answer. This is another test of sorts. Is Will able to withstand them being possibly observed by clueless canines?

Will is going to try. Hannibal sees the acceptance slowly slide into place before the nod follows. Excellent. Hannibal's lips twitch in a faint smile. He's pleased that Will is trying to 'man up.' Hannibal takes a step back, releasing him.

"I would like you to turn around. Bend over the counter and keep your hands on the pot until I say you may move them," he instructs. He's ready to begin.

* * *

The faint smile Will sees is enough for him to at least find a foothold in the face of his surprise. Maybe he hadn't been expecting something more akin to sadism from Hannibal (though in retrospect he isn't sure why he's surprised) but a smile he can translate into something easier. He's done something right if Hannibal is smiling at him and so Will allows himself to relax. The situation still feels out of his control and confusing but Hannibal has proven to be a very effective rock over the past few months. If he is a sadist, he isn't ruled by it. Will's never felt _unsafe_ with him, or like Hannibal hadn't had his best interests at heart. Not until now, but even this makes sense. If Hannibal is a sadist, he likely doesn't have many outlets for it.

Will is apparently a masochist, but he's never derived pleasure from being hurt before. He's been stabbed and it had felt akin to dying, not pleasurable. Maybe mutual consent is what flips the switch, turning 'terror and pain' into 'pleasure and calm'. It's a working theory anyway.

So for now Will is willing to cooperate. Hannibal steps back and gives his suggestion. Will pauses for a second, glancing back at the pot incredulously. "You want me to-- why?" Will asks before he can stop himself. Remembering that Hannibal isn't really forthcoming with information, Will grimaces - darting him a look that is almost apologetic for its awkwardness (this is a lot different when he's aware of what he's doing and not caught up in a moment) - and then shakes his head.

"I-- never mind. Right." Will nods jerkily and after he glances at Hannibal, he gingerly turns around. His mind is already racing; Hannibal isn't going to _fuck_ him, he's pretty sure. He'd mentioned non-sexual and Will - despite recent events - is still straight. Worrying the safeword in his mind like a stone, Will awkwardly does as he'd been told. He bends over the counter, his breath drawing in sharply at the cold laminate against his bare stomach, but he still complies. Reaching out for the pot, he hesitates only for a moment before he sets both his hands on it, craning his neck to try and look back over his shoulder.

"Is this okay?”

* * *

Will does not immediately obey. There's a prickle of irritation that Hannibal notices within himself, but this _is_ Will Graham who's new and unsure and Hannibal hadn't laid out any rigid rules or protocol for them. It should be expected that he witness Will's doubt and field his questions. Hannibal takes a deeper, steadying breath, preparing to reason with Will. But Will, to his credit, seems to work through his own awkwardness and uncertainty and gifts Hannibal with an apologetic look. Will seems to psych himself up and remember his place. If Will wants to be his good boy, Will must submit. Will isn't being forced into anything. If the instructions or task proved to be far too demeaning and Will refused, Hannibal would likely call this session to an end if he wasn't feeling especially patient.

Will gives a stilted nod, complying by turning around and bending over to present his ass. Hannibal remains still and silent until Will wraps his hand around the pot.

And then, of course, turns around to check with Hannibal. Hannibal blinks slow and steps to Will's side, one hand resting above the waistband of Will's jeans.

"Yes, Will," Hannibal says, but his voice is neutral. He hasn't forgotten what he intends to do and Will is not deserving of praise -- yet. "I'm going to punish you, Will," He begins conversationally, his hand stroking up Will's spine. "I'm going to spank you, but I would like it to be against bare skin. Do you consent to this?"

* * *

The touch to Will's lower back has him beginning to crane his neck a little more but unless he dislocates or loses a shoulder, there's no way he's going to be able to see Hannibal's hand. Realizing this, Will stills and then instead looks to Hannibal. There's something flat in his voice that makes a prickle of anxiety surface but Will just listens, and as it so happens, the anxiety is very quickly overshadowed by incredulity. At first Will thinks he'd heard wrong, but Hannibal is looking at him expectantly.

"You-- _spank_ me? Jesus, Hannibal, I'm not a child," Will says, and he intends it to be something akin to a snarl, but the slow stroke of Hannibal's hand up his back comes at just the right moment to be wholly distracting. Will shivers with a small start.

There's a small part of himself also left confused. Hannibal had said he didn't _need_ to be punished. Doubt mixes with incredulity and they both leap into a nice lake of humiliation. Already Will can feel a shamed heat prickling at his face, creeping down his neck. Spanking is something done to misbehaving children, not grown ass men. Not unless someone is into it sexually. Which Hannibal might be, but Will doesn't think sex is Hannibal's driving force here. He looks calmer, controlled, and neutral in a way that makes Will want his expression to do something else. Anything else. Anything that isn't staring at him with a mild expectation.

There's also the small matter of Hannibal wanting bare skin to hit. Will doesn't need to be a genius to see the mental image there.

But he also can't deny that mere minutes ago, he'd been ready for Hannibal to hurt him. He'd been ready for Hannibal to do something to make him feel less overwhelmed by self-loathing. This suggestion is fucking humiliating, but maybe that's the point. Will glances away, frowning down at the pattern of the counter so close by, and there's a clear struggle in the back of his mind as he weighs the options. It's not like it's the worst thing that's ever happened to him, and to his credit, Hannibal _is_ asking first. Will wets his lips, embarrassment hot under his skin. "This isn't really what I expected," he mutters, rueful.

"How... much bare skin are you expecting?" Pausing, Will thinks back to opening the door for Hannibal in his boxers and his undershirt back during the stint with Hobbs. "You can-- just the jeans. This is so fucking weird," he adds, on a slow exhale as he leans down enough to let his forehead rest on the back of one forearm. Then, before he changes his mind, he grunts,

"Yeah, I consent. I guess."

* * *

When Will blurts that he isn't a child, Hannibal looks back to him, clearly unimpressed. He knows Will isn't a child (despite how childish Will may behave and how needy he is at times). Spanking is a fetish, it's an act that can be nonsexual and sexual as well for the receiver. Arousal can occur, but it can also be used as a suitable form of punishment or if the humiliation is too severe and serves as a deterrent. As Will has responded to pain, there's a risk in this not being an effective method of punishment, but they will discover it soon enough because Hannibal is fairly sure Will is going to work through his hesitation regarding it.

While Will wars with the information, Hannibal simply strokes up and down Will's back. Hannibal has no need to punish Will for Will's own judgments toward being weak and his predilection toward pain and submission. He does have a desire to punish Will for standing him up, though. Hannibal stares back at Will, waiting and (mostly) patient. He's made his request. Will is going to either comply, put up more of a fight or employ his safeword. If Will cannot manage this, perhaps it's good that they put a stop to their arrangement.

But like earlier, Will comes to a decision and after another useless comment, he agrees and ducks down. Just the jeans. So, no direct skin contact, but it will have to do. At least Will is willing to meet him halfway. It's a positive sign, really.

"Very well," Hannibal replies. "I'm going to reach around and undo the button to your jeans and unzip the fly. I will then pull your jeans down, but nothing else."

His hands do just that: his arms encircling Will's waist and deft fingers work the button through the hole and then drag the zipper downward. Hannibal is careful in slipping Will's jeans - and only his jeans - down to his feet. It's a nice sight - Will leaning over in submission and his ass waiting with the jeans pooled on the floor.

"It's important you know what I am punishing you for, Will," Hannibal begins in a lower voice, his hand resting against the band of Will's boxers. "You're being punished for the decision to not call or text me about missing our appointment. I'm _disappointed_ about _that_ only and I won't tolerate you feeling shame or self-loathing. It's natural to disappoint others, and through adequate punishment and reflection, one can correct their behavior for next time, yes?"

Hannibal doesn't wait for a response, his hand leaves Will's back and smacks Will's left buttock hard.

* * *

It takes until Hannibal's careful explanation regarding his jeans for Will to really grasp the idea that this is happening. More than that, the realization that he feels slighted for Hannibal going back on his word is what catches him off guard. For a moment he considers saying something - Hannibal wants his honesty - but anything Will can think of to say ("You said I didn't need to be punished for being weak.") only sounds pathetic and pitiful inside his head. He keeps it quiet instead and merely breathes, reaffirming his grip on the pot and trying to cement this new reality in his head. Hannibal wants to punish him. Hannibal's going to _spank_ him like a fucking child. He's going to undo Will's jeans.

At first Will begins to suspect that this _is_ a sex thing, but when Hannibal reaches around him to undo his jeans, Will's suspicions are dashed. He's empathic enough to read intent in someone and Hannibal is not enjoying this. Not in a sexual way, anyway. He's a wall of control and power, and under it all Will swears he can feel... disappointment. It makes him shift uneasily and he helps Hannibal with the jean as best as he can, frowning his own confusion as apprehension mounts. What is he supposed to expect?

He's not expecting Hannibal to explain this further. Spanking is simple. Pull hand back, let it loose, smack, repeat. So when Hannibal's hand comes to rest on the waistband of his boxers, Will focuses his attention on it. He can't see Hannibal like this, with his head on his forearm. He can only feel and listen. So when Hannibal explains _why_ Will is being punished, realization blooms sudden and relieved in his chest. Hannibal hadn't gone back on his word, then, but Will's relief is short-lived. The word _disappointment_ is like a slice all on its own. It makes his frown deepen, makes shame begin to gather hot inside, but before he can retreat back into his mind and think about just how much he probably put Hannibal through that evening, Hannibal is quick to derail the thought.

He derails it by knocking it off course with one _Hell_ of a smack that Will had only believed he'd been ready for. The real thing tells him two things. First, having a decent ass is apparently not a good thing. Second, Hannibal is fucking _strong_.

The sting of the first smack shoots suddenly and curls through him, drawing out a half-surprised, half-pained, " _Fuck!"_ The sound of it immediately makes Winston whine in the doorway. Will almost takes a hand off the pot to wave Winston off, but instead he just grunts and grits his teeth.

"It's- it's okay, boy. It's okay," he says, only half-true. The sting is easing. The humiliation is sharper than ever, heat creeping all the way around to the back of his neck. Will drags in a rougher breath and then lets it out as a hiss between his teeth. "I already feel like an ass for standing you up."

* * *

Hannibal isn't lying. He _is_ disappointed by Will's decision to hide away and not be considerate in alerting him to the fact that he wouldn't be making the appointment. He's not often in the position where another _can_ disappoint him. This is new. It's unsettling to him in a way, but Hannibal is glad that they have this outlet to deal with such troublesome feelings.

And they will deal with them together. Not surprisingly, a dog perks up at Will's reaction to the first spank. Hannibal briefly looks over his shoulder at the concerned dog - at Winston. Like a young puppy, correcting bad behavior is important. You want to nip it in the bud, as they say. Hannibal doesn't feel bad, although he doesn't delight in punishing Will either.

' _I already feel like an ass...'_

"Yes, I'm sure you do," Hannibal answers plainly and spanks Will again. "However, feeling bad is an individualistic activity and often times is unhelpful." Another hit comes on the same spot. Hannibal can feel a pleasant sting beginning on the palm of his hand. "Because you have been a bad boy and because I care, I'm punishing you, Will. I'm hoping to help deter future behavior as you will likely be sore for a few days." His left hand reaches out grips Will's hair tightly.

"Each time you sit or your clothing rubs you, you will remember my disappointment and _not_ do it again."

He spanks the other cheek three times in quick succession.

* * *

In a way, Will wonders if he'd expected remorse to stay Hannibal's hand. It doesn't. The second strike comes not too long after the first and it's almost worse because it's placed over the first one, compounding the sting. Will isn't sure what's worse: the blows themselves, or the humiliation that runs hot under his skin at the realization _Hannibal Lecter_ , his friend and psychiatrist, is spanking him like a goddamned child. Will grits his teeth, the muscles of his back and shoulders shifting and tense, standing out in stark contrast in a way that makes it very obvious he's attempting to brace for the next blow. It doesn't help. Hannibal's hand strikes again and Will grinds out a soft plethora of curses as Hannibal speaks, explaining about the fucking nature of feeling bad and why it's apparently inconsequential. Will's only solace is that Hannibal seems to be fixating on that one spot.

The phrase 'bad boy' lingers in Will's mind for a moment longer than it probably should. It's like an irritating gnat, a mosquito that won't leave him alone, and he grinds his teeth silently as he braces again for the next blow. But instead of that, what actually happens is that Hannibal's free hand reaches out and finds his hair. Fingers curl tight into it and pull and the sensation is immediate. Will's breath sharpens into something nearing a gasp and the feeling has him tensing immediately. There. There it is. That slightly hazy sensation that sharpens his focus on Hannibal, like the grip to his hair is enough to lessen his fight. The phrase 'bad boy' suddenly seems more stress-inducing and Will shifts at the knowledge that Hannibal wants this lesson to linger. While he's not desperate and falling apart like he had been at the crime scene, there's something grounding about Hannibal's fingers in his hair. Will doesn't know enough about submission to know it's a mindset, and it's finally starting to flicker into existence again.

Which means when Hannibal suddenly strikes him again, three times in a different spot, Will chokes loudly on a sound and tries to move away, but his knees bump painfully against the cupboards in front of them and he remembers the counter. Breathing heavier, sweat beginning to dot the line of his back, Will grips the pot with white-knuckled fingers. It's fucking humiliating, but maybe that's the point. There's no satisfaction he can feel from Hannibal. He doesn't sound pleased, or even like _he's_ enjoying this, sadist or not. Will just grinds his teeth; he already knows he's not likely to up and ditch again if _this_ is the response.

"Hannibal," Will says, and not even he knows whether it's a plea or a reminder. For a moment he's caught, not sure why he'd spoken, but with Hannibal's fingers in his hair and the focus he can feel, he's not _as_ surprised as he should be when he says, "you... you wanted bare skin, right? Might as well do it right." He doesn't _want_ it. In fact it's pretty much the last thing he wants right now, but he can't deny an odd sensation in the back of his mind. He doesn't like this, but there's something almost cathartic about having his _real_ mistakes spelled out for him. He doesn't have time to feel ashamed for who he is, for the last week. His focus is on the hand in his hair and what _Hannibal_ says he's done wrong.

* * *

Will bears the spankings well. Predictably he tenses, cursing under his breath, but not crying out in such a way to be overly ridiculous (like some do). Will doesn't beg for it to end; he doesn't use the recently selected safeword either. Hannibal is pleased, but it's a secondary emotion for he's not finished with punishing Will. He is still disappointed that Will hadn't, at the very least, sent him a text message to inform him that he wouldn't be coming. So, now Hannibal must take the necessary corrective action.

Hannibal notices the grip to Will's hair seems to calm him some. He keeps it sharp, but not painful. He doesn't want the sensation to overpower the punishment. When his hand makes contact in a different place, Will is surprised enough that he foolishly attempts to move away. Will's knees hit the cupboards loudly, but Hannibal doesn't apologize or feel badly about it. He looks over the line of Will's back, at the sweat showing up, and then he checks that Will's hands are still holding the pot - they are. Good.

What surprises Hannibal is Will inviting him to do it _right_ \- to pull down his boxers and have direct skin contact. "Yes, we might as well," Hannibal agrees. With his spanking hand, he curls his fingers underneath the band and he begins working the article of clothing down, careful to not catch on Will's genitals. The rather skimpy cotton boxers are pulled down and join the jeans around Will's ankles. Bare ass now exposed, Hannibal can take in the delicious reddening of Will's skin.

Hannibal runs the tip of his finger over a patch of red. "If you feel unable to attend our appointment or need to reschedule, what will you do next time, Will?" Hannibal asks before giving Will another hard spank over the already sensitive area.

* * *

Will wants to claim that he has no idea why he's offered Hannibal what he has, but he knows that's a lie. Thinking about it logically is simple. If he's going to do this, he's going to do it right. Will has never been a man to something by halves, and there's a stubborn set to his mind that makes this almost impossible to shake. He's humiliated at the thought of being even close to naked around Hannibal, but just as the thought hits him, so too does another one.

Hannibal has already got him off once. Maybe he hadn't touched Will's dick directly, but he'd still rubbed him off against the car. And while Will doesn't want to admit it, doesn't want to admit that that night against the car had even happened, the level of intimacy between them has already been raised. The bar between them is higher than it's ever been before and there's nothing Will can do to change the past so he might as well enjoy the benefits on the present. If he focuses hard enough on _why_ this is happening and twists it like a particularly confusing puzzle in his mind, it makes it easier to justify his choice as being more than merely self-destructive. Hannibal had wanted this to begin with, and now that Will knows what to expect, he's not _pleased_ about it, but he's not afraid. There's no reason to bitch out.

So he simply closes his eyes as Hannibal agrees and slides his boxers down. He's clinical with it, and somehow that makes Will feel better and worse at the same time. It strikes him belatedly that he's essentially naked now. In front of Hannibal. Face flaming with a fresh wave of humiliation, Will closes his eyes tighter and presses his forehead to his forearm, breathing out a low breath steadily.

He expects Hannibal to hit him immediately, so the simple touch of his finger is enough to startle him almost enough to knock his knees against the cupboards again. Fingers in his hair or not, it's hard to ignore this level of humiliation. (There's a joke in here about doctors and fingers somewhere, and Will almost hysterically wants to find it for his own peace of mind, but he doesn't.) It doesn't take Hannibal long to talk, and having a task, oddly, makes all the difference. Will grabs it like a lifeline and only needs to think on the question for a moment before he has the answer. "I'm going to-- _ahh!_ "

Hannibal's hand strikes him again, and beyond the immediate stunning burn, all Will can think of is how much louder the sound is against bare skin. It takes Will a moment to find his breath again, still stunned, but to his credit, he hasn't tried to pull away, safeword, or let go of the pot. The sheen of sweat over his skin is greater now, his breathing a little rougher.

"I'll call you," he says, once he can. "Or text. Fuck, Hannibal."

* * *

While Hannibal can hazard a guess as to why Will has agreed to bare himself, he's not terribly interested at the moment. Perhaps it's a masculinity issue and Will doesn't want to appear weak or scared about doing such a thing. Perhaps Will wants to push himself and he's stubborn enough to want to comply fully now that he's experienced it. Or maybe a part of him secretly craves a greater degree of embarrassment. It's likely not a simple answer and whatever the reasons Hannibal finds himself glad that there are no barriers between them now. He can hear Will try to steady himself, trying for deeper breaths, and _that_ is actually a delight. Unfortunately for Will, Hannibal plans on not allowing him much time to catch his breath.

Skin is skin. Hannibal's not particularly interested that it's an _ass_ in front of him (although Will does have a rather nice backside). The sound of his palm striking is more pronounced, the accompanying sting on his own hand is a lovely reminder of the shared pain between them, but Hannibal's discomfort is only a fraction of Will's. He waits and allows Will to answer. Will's reply includes a curse word, but he'll allow it, for now. It's only the beginning of their arrangement after all.

"Yes, exactly," Hannibal says calmly. "Whether it's our appointment or a social gathering, you will be considerate and notify me if you cannot make it." He spanks the left and then the right cheek quickly.

"I don't like when you are bad, Will. I don't like being made to wait, expecting your presence and then left wondering if you're indisposed or simply being _rude_." Hannibal grips at Will's hair tightly, pulling his head up while he delivers a series of brutal spanks to Will's closest cheek.

* * *

He'd waited the whole time, then. That's what Will is gleaning from this when he can find the mind to piece information together. His breathing is rough as he stands there, Hannibal's stupid pot between his hands, his chest starting to risk sliding against the counter with the sweat building on his skin. Hannibal had waited in his office for Will to show up and he hadn't. It had been rude and Will feels a curl of guilt - not shame - for making Hannibal wait at work when these conversations are technically off the books anyway. He could have been home, could have been cooking or drinking wine or reading, but instead he'd been left to wait, and then he'd felt the need to drive all the way out here. Will's just managed to touch on shame at the thought of ruining Hannibal's evening when Hannibal's hand suddenly curls tighter in his hair.

It's enough to drag a gasp from his throat, strangled as it is. Over Will's shoulder he can hear Winston set up a low whine, concerned by the scents in the air, but Will can't focus on Winston right now. Hannibal's next blows are bordering on brutal, the sound a sharp snap in the air and Will's ass struck so many times there's no way he's not red. The force is enough to make him grind his teeth, his jaw bunching as he leans against the counter. Shoulders tense and knuckles white, Will withstands each strike. He's distantly aware of Hannibal's fingers in his hair - grounding despite the way he's pulled Will's head back so that he can't hide - but his focus is on the sting and the disappointment in Hannibal's voice.

By the time Hannibal's hand stills, Will's eyelashes are clumped with moisture that won't fall. He's not crying, but physical pain needs an outlet in some way. His body seems confused on how to respond seeing as he isn't running away, so this is all it can manage. A slight dampness to his eyes and a burning ache that twists hot through him. He's half-hard, but Will doesn't notice; it doesn't really feel _good_ , just painful. Despite that, all he does is breathe heavily, his eyes closed tightly as his muscles shake with the strain of keeping himself still.

"I'm... I'm sorry," is all he can think of to say, but it's not begging. It's just acknowledgement. This is simple. He fucks up, he gets punished, it stops. It's arguably the simplest thing in his life right now.

* * *

Normally two no-shows are grounds for termination of services. Hannibal would certainly not tolerate such a thing from any other patient. He's had no qualms with dismissing more than a handful of patients for such behavior over the years. But Will is technically not his patient. Even so, Hannibal has an uncomfortable notion that he wouldn't have dismissed Will anyway. Prodigal son? Yes, perhaps. (Last week Hannibal had said he'd always welcome Will with open arms...)

He may not enjoy that he has to punish Will, but Hannibal does like spanking. He likes spanking Will quite a bit actually. The sharp sound thats rings out, the shared pain - Will's ass and his hand. His own body's exertion as he winds his arm back and uses force while his hand connects with flesh. He can see Will's muscles clench in and the sheen of sweat. He's a little heated himself, too. The layers of clothing adding up.

To Will's credit he doesn't try and calm Winston down from his most recent upset. Will still hasn't complained or used the safeword either. He shifts to be able to glance at the side of Will's face and sees wet eyes and an obvious flushness.

"Oh, I'm sure you are sorry." That's all Hannibal says before he adds even more color, favoring Will's right asscheek more. His hand is tingling by the time he stops.

"Although you've done well for me throughout this," Hannibal states, allowing some warmth to bleed into his voice and letting his nails scrape over the abused skin. Hannibal relents slightly, pushing Will's head back down. "Are you my good boy now, Will?"

* * *

Will doesn't beg Hannibal to stop. He doesn't cry. Aside from the few little blips, he doesn't try to get away; he never seriously tries to get away. He just stands there, bent over his counter, his chest flush against cool laminate and his hands both gripping Hannibal's pot like the lifeline it now is. As overwhelmed as Will feels, there's something cathartic to this. He appreciates the simplicity. It's humiliating, it's really fucking painful, but it's what he wants, he realizes after an awkward stretch of time. Part of him still wants to believe he's being punished over liking the whole damn thing but Hannibal's words keep flooding back in - that he's _only_ being punished for making Hannibal wait, for not being courteous. So instead he accepts the punishment for being an ass (the irony is not lost on him) and he grits his teeth so hard that they squeak as Hannibal's hand comes down against his right ass cheek again and again and again.

Aside from the first few cries of surprise, Will has been mostly quiet. His breathing is his only sound, though it's rough and hitched and sometimes stops completely as Hannibal spanks him. But as Hannibal's hand keeps on going, the first few strangled sounds begin to drag themselves from Will's throat unbidden. It's sore. It's _really_ fucking sore, and it doesn't feel good. He knows he'll have bruises for more than just a few days but he doesn't fight against it. He just takes it, breathing hard, his exhales sharp through his nose as he fights for control over himself.

The last thing Will is expecting is the flood of relief when Hannibal's tone of voice shifts. He doesn't think he's ever been this aware of the man before. While his tone had been colder and distant, there is a warmth that enters it suddenly and Will feels mildly embarrassed for how relieved he is to hear it. The words register - that he's done well - and for the first time, the pain takes a slightly different edge. Still shaking with the tension, Will stays still until Hannibal lets him put his head back down and only then does his voice break on a slightly rougher breath, but it has nothing on the scrape of Hannibal's nails over his ass. The sound Will lets out is just shy of a sob of a breath, and he hasn't even decided how he's going to answer when he does.

"Yes," he says, and his voice is rough with strain. He fights the urge to twist away from Hannibal's hands and a shudder slips through him, painful, as gooseflesh breaks out on already oversensitive skin. "Yes, I am. I won't make you wait again."

* * *

Hannibal is well aware that praise and connection is vital to Will in their arrangement. Will, despite how adamantly he may deny it, _is_ delicate. Hannibal must be careful to not remain overly detached for too long. They've only just begun being more intimate - Hannibal's touch and presence a comforting familiarity to Will - and likely the distance coupled with the punishment is felt keenly. His hand may be hitting skin, Will may be exposed and vulnerable, but Hannibal is well versed in using tone and his words to create distance.

When he praises Will, he is genuine. Will has continued to obey him despite the onslaught of punishment he's receiving. This is obviously a first for Will (at least as an adult) but Hannibal has not held back. Will's been fairly quiet save for the harsh ragged breathing, but Hannibal has begun to notice Will starting to lose the battle of control. Watching and experiencing such a show is gratifying for the mind can only fight the body for so long. Will is of course stubborn in this - Hannibal can see it in his posture, in the clench of his jaw. Yes, Will Graham is a stubborn man, but Hannibal is patient and he will do whatever is necessary to break down Will's control.

"You're what, Will?" Hannibal asks kindly, as if needing to prompt a child. He knows Will doesn't want to say the phrase 'good boy' but that's exactly why Hannibal wants him to. "Please clarify for me." He may be pushing too much here, but this is how they will learn boundaries. He thinks Will can handle this. Hannibal's palm gives another spank to Will's left cheek.

* * *

There's a part of Will that wants to pretend he can't hear Hannibal, that the onslaught of sensation is so acute that his voice gets lost in the din and over-sensitivity of the rest of the moment, but he can't. He can hear Hannibal perfectly, better than he can hear anything else. He knows Winston is watching because he'd heard the click of nervous paws on the floor before, and he can hear soft whining from the other room as the dogs mill about nervously, torn between anxiety over the sound of their master being hurt but _knowing_ the attacker as one who has fed them in the past. Will knows they're watching and the thought is humiliating even though they can't possibly understand. But more humiliating than even that is the fact that Will _does_ hear Hannibal and he knows immediately what Hannibal wants.

Will wants to recoil from the suggestion. Using it as a code word is one thing, but actively admitting to it now is different. He feels a flush of heat slide through him (there is a part of him that does like the phrase and he _hates_ that part of himself because he doesn't fucking need praise or accolades from anyone, thanks) but he fully plans on resisting, on keeping his damn mouth shut. This must come across - or so Will thinks - because no sooner has he set his jaw stubbornly then another strike suddenly shatters the brief break he'd been given. Somehow it feels even worse after the brief reprieve and Will's breath catches on a strangled sound. It's getting harder to censor himself, his muscles trembling with the exertion of staying still and his skin damp with sweat from the effort.

If Hannibal were to ask why Will gives in, Will would likely tell him it was because he was trying to avoid another punishment. It's not a lie. That's true. But the shameful side of it is there's a small part of him that doesn't want Hannibal to rescind the praise. He thinks on the phrase - on what he feels like an idiot for saying - but after only a brief pause, Will relents.

"Your good boy," he mumbles, face almost hurting with the rush of embarrassment. And, because he knows that isn't going to be enough, he takes another breath before Hannibal can strike him again and rushes ahead, "I'm your good boy, Sir--Hannibal," Will catches himself on the last letter. His voice stumbles in a hiss over the word he _hadn't_ meant to say, but he does have hope that his voice had been muffled enough for it to simply sound like a hiss. The thought had been both thrilling and humiliating when Hannibal had mentioned it earlier, and Will immediately wants to hit his head on the counter for slipping. Way to go. Rush ahead and fight out the phrase he's embarrassed over and the other word comes out too. He's a fucking genius.

* * *

Hannibal is aware of the low anxiety present in Will's pack of dogs. They've likely only been witness to Will crying out while tormented by nightmares. That Will is not in bed, occasionally making pained sounds coupled with the violent smack of Hannibal's hand, it's understandable that they're mildly put out. Thankfully, none of them are ridiculously overprotective and see _him_ as a threat. (Hannibal suspects feeding them their 'treat' has helped with this. He's also been around enough that he's not seen wholly as a stranger.) He can hear the faint scrape of claws against the floor as the dogs get up and try to settle as well as faithful Winston's plaintive whines from the doorway. But Hannibal is only interested in the strain of their master's breathing, seeing the body in front of him shake and tense and, of course, hearing what he's requested.

What Hannibal receives is more than he's asked for. Will using Sir without meaning to is akin to Will giving _him_ a treat. Will hastens to correct himself, but it's too late. Hannibal has heard it and he smiles as Will has no way of seeing it. He's not surprised that it had slipped out. Hannibal mentioned it for a reason, after all. Acknowledgment of a power imbalance can sometimes help with submitting, or add to the headspace.

"That's right, Will." Hannibal's voice is pleasant and warm still. His fingers scratch at Will's hair (his very own dog to praise and train?). "You're my good boy and if my good boy wants to use 'Sir' while we play, I would have no issue with that."

Hannibal let's go of Will's hair. "Excuse me a moment." Purposefully, no contact is made as he backs up and undoes his suit jacket. He watches Will curiously as he does this task.

* * *

There are no words to properly describe Will's humiliation as he presses his forehead to his arm and grits his teeth, just praying Hannibal hasn't heard. As with most prayers, this one goes unanswered as Will can feel the tonal shift behind Hannibal's posture. He can feel the satisfaction etched into the world like someone had just sprayed cologne into the air around him. Will grimaces deeply and presses his forehead closer to his arm until his fingers start to tingle, but it's too little, too late. His only solace is that Hannibal doesn't immediately mock him. Instead Hannibal sounds almost... proud. He's definitely pleased, and Will can kind of understand why. People don't become doctors or psychiatrists simply to help people. There's an element of power to it as well.

Even so, Hannibal's voice is warm and Will's breath hitches at the light scratch of Hannibal's nails through his hair. He's sensitized beyond what he'd thought capable and the desire to ask for more and to shy away from it is immediate. Will shudders with a small sound, something that likely would have been needier had he not bitten it back, but he's not so far gone that he tries to chase Hannibal's hand when he draws back. Instead Will just rests there, breathing hard, his ass burning and likely deep red by now for how hot it feels. Hannibal's words linger - Will doesn't miss the repeated 'good boy' - but then he's drawing back, ceasing all contact, and Will feels oddly jarred.

He's fine for a few seconds, staying exactly where he is. He's not a bitch; he can handle what Hannibal throws at him, but as seconds tick, the lack of contact almost feels worse than the blows. He can hear rustling fabric behind him, can sense that something is happening but he doesn't know what. When he finally can't handle the not knowing anymore, Will risks a look back over his shoulder, face flushed, hair a mess as he tries to catch his breath. He catches only a faint glimpse of Hannibal, enough to see that he's undoing his suit jacket, and the sight of the vest makes something hotter slide through him. Will wets his lips, breathes out a little sharper through his nose, and then turns his attention back ahead.

To his credit, he does manage a fair amount of time, but the longer Hannibal watches him, the more aware of his surroundings he is. Will is left aware of the position he's in, how he must look. Thoughts of whether or not Hannibal likes what he sees are overshadowed by thoughts that he must look like a fucking idiot, his pants and boxers around his ankles, his ass red, his dick half-hard but uninterested, and his hands holding Hannibal's dumb pot.

Will's frown deepens and the illusion is close to shattering when he says, "Hannibal, come on," in as much of a warning as Will is willing to give.

* * *

To Will's credit, he remains still for a handful of seconds. Elegant fingers undo the buttons on his suit jacket in no real hurry. Hannibal doesn't need to look, he's had years of undoing buttons and slipping on ties. Dressing and undressing, cufflinks and pocket squares, they're second nature to him. His eyes remain on the fetching image of Will submitting and left _waiting_ for him to return. Will is sweaty and shaky, his backside bright red and undoubtedly burning. Will has a fairly impressive pain tolerance and Hannibal is actually impressed.

When Will cannot stand it any longer, he does look over his shoulder and Hannibal delights in the disheveled hair, the flush to Will's face and the watery eyes. Hannibal ensures his face remains perfectly calm. Will only looks for a moment before turning back. Will says nothing and Hannibal continues to watch as he slips off the jacket and drapes it over a kitchen chair. He can make out that Will is slightly aroused, but Hannibal has no plans on addressing it.

He's got one sleeve rolled up to his elbow by the time Will nears his breaking point and finally speaks up. Hannibal knows it's a warning and it's one he won't ignore. Without contact, left to his own judgmental mind, Will can easily work himself up. Hannibal hums his acknowledgement and steps back over to Will. He places a hand on the small of Will's back while he rolls up his other sleeve.

"It's difficult to remain as you are with me watching, isn't it?" Hannibal inquires. "You look lovely to me, though."

* * *

How does it take so long to undo a fucking jacket? Will doesn't have the wardrobe Hannibal has but he's got enough tweed and corduroy in his closet to make up Professor Chic pretty accurately and Will can be out of his suit jacket, tie, shoes, and anything else he doesn't like within twenty seconds of getting back home. It's no bra dance (Will had seen it once with a girl in college and he still doesn't know how she'd gotten the thing off without taking her shirt off) but he's proud of how quickly he can put clothes on and take them off.

Hannibal clearly has no such pride. Will can feel stress tickling sharp at the back of his mind as Hannibal works in relative silence. Will wonders unkindly if he's decided to spit-shine his fucking buttons in the interim. It's the only excuse for how long Hannibal takes to respond. Will gives his warning and to Hannibal's credit, he doesn't leave him alone for much longer. Will doesn't realize how tense he's become until suddenly there's a hand settling over the small of his back. Hannibal's palm splays wide and hot and the weight is like a tether to his thoughts. Wild ends and lashes wind around Hannibal's hand instead, Hannibal absorbing the blows from their criticism and shame and simply taking it unto himself without comment.

Will almost sags against the counter in relief. Though that relief is both short lived and immediately challenged when Hannibal simply implies he'd done it on _purpose_. A test, Will realizes. It had been a test. Will's face burns as he's caught between the desire to shove Hannibal away and the desire to know if he's passed. Instead he merely darts a cutting look over his shoulder that he means to come across as far less pleased, but then he catches sight of Hannibal's rolled-up-sleeves and bare forearms and something in his brain halts.

_Wrist-deep in a living body. Red, blue lights flashing. Blue latex covering pale skin from blood. The rhythmic flex of powerful, bare forearms as Hannibal massages the man's heart into beating. Soft hair falling into eyes that pin Will in place when they meet..._

For the first time that evening, Will feels a stirring of honest arousal despite its sensitivity. He doesn't want anything to come from it, but his ire is calmed almost immediately at the reminder. Instead he swallows and tries not to flinch away at the fact it had taken him a good five seconds to register that Hannibal had called him _lovely_.

"Bullshit," Will shoots back, self-deprecatingly. "Don't--... I didn't like that. Waiting. If you want 'Sir' instead of 'Hannibal', don't leave me to my thoughts."

* * *

Unlike Will, Hannibal finds enjoyment in the orderly process of undressing and redressing. He likes the familiarity of the task, taking care to preserve proper creases and handle buttons with precision as to not loosen them. He maneuvers zippers with care and smoothes out wrinkles when necessary. When undressing another, Hannibal's hands do not rush either. There can be an intimacy in taking one’s time while stripping another bare piece by piece. Hannibal had, for Will's sake, merely been clinical in lowering first the jeans and then his boxers. But he would like to undress Will slowly one day, observing the heat of embarrassment bringing a flush to his skin while attentively removing article by article. He'd let his hands and fingers brush...

When his hand connects them once more, the relief from Will is almost palpable. Hannibal watches Will deflate, but the respite is short lived as Will infers - correctly - that Hannibal had been purposefully distant. Hannibal's expression is unapologetic as Will throws him a displeased look - but curiously that expression seems to change when Will sees him. Hannibal doesn't know where Will goes or what's caused the change. He's now without his jacket and his sleeves are rolled up. As curious as he may be, Hannibal knows he isn't going to ask. Will needs to be allowed his own secrets as well (and he'd rather Will _tell_ him than have to ask).

"I'll keep that in mind," is all Hannibal replies with. He doesn't necessarily need to be called 'Sir' and he has no plans on giving Will exactly what he wants - where would the fun be in that? He gives no warning as another spank comes.

"But it's rather rude to all but spit on my compliment, Will. Do I seem like a man who gives such observations thoughtlessly?" Hannibal's hand slides to Will's waist and grips tight as he spanks again.

* * *

Hannibal had told him to be honest, and that's precisely what Will is doing. It doesn't matter that honesty comes easier to him when he's angry or frustrated; Will's more than capable of being a blunt instrument when he needs to be. Being left alone even for the minute or two (or twenty, as it had seemed) had been enough to get under his skin, to make his current situation stand out in stark contrast. His ass is sore, the backs of his thighs are sore, and his back and shoulders feel like they've knotted themselves tight with the constant tension. It's not something that feels _good_ but he doesn't think it's supposed to be. Punishment is fine; Will can handle being punished. What he can't abide is being punished needlessly. He can't stand up to Jack when he does it, but despite this new revelation - the sadism - Hannibal is still his friend. He can stand up to Hannibal if he has to.

Thankfully for them both, he doesn't have to. Hannibal doesn't move his hand once he realizes Will isn't as stable without it and Will does begin to calm again with the steady contact. Hannibal shows Will he's been listening, agreeing to keep his protests in mind, but just as Will is beginning to relax again, he's surprised by another sudden spank that he isn't expecting. The immediacy of it makes him jerk forwards and he's definitely going to have bruised knees tomorrow with the way they hit the cupboards with a jarring strike. Will's cry is muffled at the last second, but the surprise is likely obvious. Grimacing, he leans his head forward on his forearm again and his grip tightens on the pot. " _Fuck_ , Hannibal," Will hisses back, and is rewarded with another strike that sends pain through him.

As had been the case the last time, the break makes the subsequent spanks worse. Will's very aware of how sore he is and while Hannibal's hand on his waist is grounding, it doesn't eclipse the pain. He grinds his forehead down onto the back of his forearm, his breathing rougher. Still, the tight grip to his waist is something Will appreciates. It's a different type of pain, but it doesn't make him any more agreeable to the compliment.

"No... But do I seem like the type of man called _lovely_ a lot, Hannibal?" Will asks tightly, sarcasm rife in his voice.

* * *

Will's outburst had been honest and Hannibal cannot truly be surprised by it. He can be _disappointed_ by it, however. He has no issue with letting Will know it's rude to balk in the face of his compliment. But right now he's not interested in driving this point home. Will cannot help but be hard on himself, it's in his nature to be self-deprecating. Will's been beaten down by the world; it will take time for him to move past his negative self-image - if he ever can. Some individuals were simply used to the doom and gloom of low self-esteem and a pessimistic outlook and they preferred to not try and expand past that. There was comfort in the misery because it was familiar. He hopes that's not the case for Will.

It's not his intention that Will injures himself in this, but it doesn't look like it can be helped as Will lurches forward and his knees once again bang into the cupboards. The stopping and starting is catching Will off guard, but Will startling is an engrossing sight. Hannibal likes the idea of Will's body being banged up by _Will's_ own reactions. Will could be canvas for him to decorate, for bruises to bloom and scars to form. Hannibal is a fine artist, after all and Will, in time, could be a masterpiece.

"Vulgar and sarcastic as ever, Will," Hannibal comments - it's almost a scolding. "Luckily for you, I happen to like you as such."

He shouldn't tolerate the uncouth language or should at least not reveal such a thing, but he's feeling gracious. Will's rough edges are pleasing to him and so Hannibal allows Will to slide into rude territory.

"My boy with the big attitude," Hannibal murmurs to himself before beginning the spanking again in earnest, pausing every so often to let Will catch his breath. His hand is warm and Will's ass is a bright beacon displayed to him.

* * *

Will intends to reply. The comment is already on his lips, breathless and self-depreciating, but before it makes it past his lips, Hannibal's words actually register and Will is startled into silence. He'd been expecting the words to be a reprimand. They'd sounded like one at first, but hearing that Hannibal _likes_ him vulgar and sarcastic is a surprise. People don't tend to like Will. They tend to tolerate him, so this is enough to make him pause, his brow furrowed in bewilderment even as he hides against his own arm.

To his mutual disappointment and relief, he's given no real time to dwell on this. Hannibal's hand moves back again and this time Will manages to brace for the return to spanking the moment before the first of many hits lands. It still doesn't stop his sharp inhale or the way his knuckles go white against the pot he's holding. Hannibal's words ring in his ears (' _My boy...'_ ) and Will repeats them in his mind as Hannibal works. Each spank is solid, hitting him at varying places, from the top of his ass near his coccyx (more sensitive) down to the sensitive tops of his thighs ( _most_ sensitive). A few times he swears he can feel the ache all the way through to his dick, like Hannibal has chosen to slap it instead, but no, Hannibal isn't _that_ sadistic. Probably. His blows come full and hard but just when Will doesn't think he can handle it anymore, Hannibal slows and stops, giving him time to breathe.

It isn't an isolated incident. This almost seems to become a game. Hannibal spanks, Will's breathing grows rougher and ragged, and his breath is hitching by the time Hannibal finally stops. His eyes sting with effort and his chest slides on the counter with the sweat on his skin. Will loses count how many times Hannibal does the fucking start-and-stop, but each time Hannibal starts again is almost worse than the last. Hannibal's hand has to be agonized right now but Will doesn't care. It's around the fourth time (maybe? He has no fucking clue anymore) that he finally can't handle it. The spanks take a sharper edge, and Will's breath is nearing a sob when Hannibal finally starts to slow.

"S-sir," Will grinds out, or he intends to. His voice comes out thinner and breathless, bordering something desperate. "Please... "

It's manipulative. Will doesn't care. The word doesn't feel nearly as embarrassing right now to say out loud. He'll take more if Hannibal wants him to, but he's not about to forget this. He'll be lucky if he can sit down normally even in two weeks. Hannibal's _strong,_ and Will doesn't know how much more he can take.

* * *

In Hannibal's opinion, spanking properly is a bit of an art form - it's one in which force, timing and appropriate pauses are imperative. There's a delicate balance between pushing and then stopping for there's a delicious anticipatory feeling in waiting for the next hit to come. Hannibal is impressed that Will hasn't used the safeword or asked him to stop or lessen the blows. This bodes well for future endeavors. He doesn't know if he'll be permitted to view the bruising at a later date, but Hannibal would like to. He would take great pleasure in observing the different pattern of bruising or welts he could create with a riding crop or a flogger upon Will's skin.

He varies the locations of the spankings and he's perhaps a little too vigorous about delivering a rather thorough punishment. Hannibal can admit that he's likely a little over zealous given that it's Will's first time too. It's not in his nature to be sloppy with such a delicate matter and Hannibal doesn't know if he's pushing because it's been awhile for him or if it's how Will takes it all so beautifully. (It's mildly disconcerting but he'll think on it later.) He pushes and stops. He reads Will's posture and breathing and adjusts when needed. Like Will himself, this dance of sorts is lovely. But like all good things, the end is drawing nearer. Hannibal can tell Will is reaching his limit. He's not disappointed. Will has performed admirably for him.

When Hannibal hears Will he exhales slowly. The words and wrecked tone are a signal that this is coming to a stop. Hannibal's heart rate is elevated slightly from the exertion and the muscles in his right arm feel a slight strain to them. His palm and fingers are also red, although not nearly as crimson as Will's buttocks and upper thighs are.

"Yes, Will, I think that's quite enough for now," Hannibal murmurs, allowing pride to warm his tone. "Stay still a moment longer. I'm going to pull up your underwear."

Hannibal lowers himself into a squat to the side of Will and does just that, gently tugging the boxers back up and easing it over the rather sore looking backside. Once more, he's careful of the flagging half-erection. It would be better to not have any friction against Will's skin, but Hannibal assumes Will does not want to be naked. Hannibal stands and his hands come to Will's shoulders. He pulls Will away from the counter before coaxing him to turn around. Hannibal does not seek out eye contact as he looks to Will's face and brushes sweaty curls off of Will's forehead.

"You've done very well, thank you," he says. "I would like you to go to bed and rest. Are you able to walk? You may take my arm if needed."

* * *

Will is determined not to safeword out of this. He fucked up by making Hannibal wait, he gets punished. It's simple. It doesn't matter that at this point he's pretty sure the punishment no longer fits the crime but he a really fucked up way, this is almost cathartic. There's no room for anything else in his head as Hannibal's hand comes down. Thoughts of looking like an idiot and of saying the right thing fall by the wayside, and all that's left is this. All he focuses on is trying to keep his breathing steady and on wondering when and where the next blow will come. It's good until it isn't, and while there's a huge part of Will that expects Hannibal to ignore his vague plea, much to his surprise, Hannibal knows exactly what he's saying _and_ seems to agree with it.

He stops and Will lets out a long breath he hadn't even known he'd been holding as he leans all of his weight against the counter. Finally, like a puppet with its strings cut, he slumps there, his panting so obvious that it almost wheezes every few breaths. Will distantly listens to Hannibal talk but he does hear the pride in his voice and it's worth it. Somehow it's worth this whole thing. It's a reward on its own and Will dwells on it as he stays still and Hannibal bends to pull his boxers back up. Will hardly notices or cares - at least until the fabric moves over his ass. He knows Hannibal is likely being gentle but the press of fabric feels like nails scratching over his skin. Still, he'd thought to help Will dress again. It's thoughtful and Will isn't going to spit on that.

He doesn't move until Hannibal bodily directs him. A part of him wonders if he's supposed to still grab the pot but he doubts it. So, following Hannibal's lead, he lets go and lets himself be turned around. It hurts to move, his skin sensitive, and Will winces as he breathes harder, a flush all the way down his chest. Still, Hannibal doesn't try to make eye contact even as he brushes Will's hair back. Will isn't dismissive enough to ignore the urge to lean into the touch. It's softer and Hannibal's hand is hot, likely with his own kind of pain. Will listens as well as he can, and a shiver of relief slides through him at the idea of doing well. Something of the real him flares at the question, but Will merely swallows it down and nods, looking somewhere between pained and dazed.

"I can walk," he insists.

He _can_. It just hurts like a bitch. The first step has him hesitating, his eyes closing, but he pushes through it. Instead of making his way upstairs, Will makes another decision. First he does take Hannibal's arm (and tries not to feel weak for it) and then he just starts off towards the older, thinner mattress downstairs. He uses it late at night some days, out of place as it is. It makes a good work station when needed and for all that it's covered in dog hair, Will doesn't care.

* * *

He could carry Will, but Hannibal knows Will would not allow such a thing to happen. They may be making leaps and bounds into intimacy and familiarity, but Will is still a staunchly proud man. Hannibal has no need to swoop in and save Will right now, either. Will can struggle and Hannibal is fine with that. Let the punishment be felt in a different way now (let it linger). Will sets off at a snail's pace and Hannibal merely sticks close by, monitoring shaky limbs and drinking in the sight of Will in pain by his hand. But after a few shaky steps, Will gives in and does take his arm. Hannibal assists Will, letting Will take the lead and it would appear they're heading to the fur covered 'bed' (if it could be called that) in the living room. Actually, upon closer observation, it looks more like a futon.

Hannibal doesn't sigh. He reminds himself that this isn't about him. This is aftercare. If he must lay on a subpar mattress with blankets that have copious amounts of fur on them, he will. Hannibal helps Will onto the futon, steadying him as he crawls onto it. The dogs watch them with interest, perhaps hoping to join them. (The thought appalls Hannibal initially, but perhaps just Winston or Zoe would be tolerable).

"Lay on your side," he instructs and Will complies. Hannibal joins him, on his back and then gently pulls Will over to him so that Will's head is on his chest and Will is now on his stomach. Will is still sweaty, but Hannibal doesn't care. His boy has been through a lot and the perspiration is evidence. He curves his arm around Will's back and has his fingers in Will's damp hair again. He strokes and rubs at Will's scalp with the intention to soothe.

"How are you?"

* * *

Will doesn't let himself think as he limps toward his mattress. Is it the most comfortable one he's ever had? No. It's covered from top to bottom in dog hair that he really should use some tape or rubber gloves to get off at some point but it smells like home and like his dogs and there's no way Will is making the stairs right now. Thank god he has a bathroom on the ground floor. He just hopes that all he needs to do until his ass stops burning so much is just take a piss. Sitting is going to be agonizing. Driving is going to be murder, and all these thoughts coalesce and begin to occur to him now. Try as Will might to avoid thinking, he can't just drop it entirely. His thoughts always catch up with him.

He settles on the bed at Hannibal's instruction, wincing at the way his boxers pull tight over his ass. He gives serious thought to investing in a few pairs three sizes too big if this is going to be a regular occurrence. Will doesn't know what he's expecting from this; he's just happy to lay down before he fucking collapses. So when Hannibal suddenly joins him and settles onto his back, Will can only watch, dumbfounded. He watches dog hair cling to Hannibal's clothing but he's too shocked to protest. He just watches and when Hannibal reaches out to him, Will goes without thinking.

It's not until Hannibal's arm has slid around him and his fingers slide through his hair that Will finally catches up to the moment and tenses. Even that is half-hearted. He's exhausted, and every touch of Hannibal's forearm (bare forearm) feels far too sensitive against his skin, but at least it's nothing on his ass and thighs. Much as Will wants to protest this care, the touch feels _good_. He'd never call himself touch starved, but that's exactly what he is. The hug flashes in his memory and Will thinks this might be Hannibal's version of care, or of reward. Honestly, compared to a meal at his home or a bottle of wine, he prefers this, a lot.

Though he wants to hide from the realization, Will doesn't. He merely drags an arm up and tentatively drapes it over Hannibal's chest, pressing closer with his head ducked and hidden.

"Sore," he grumbles back, perhaps a little rougher to compensate. At the foot of the bed, curious noses are already poking up. Zoe is the one to jump up, though she waffles about for a moment before stepping in to settle against Hannibal's legs. It's her spot, but she's apparently willing to share it with him. "Were you expecting another answer?"

* * *

For Hannibal providing aftercare can, at times, be a tedious affair. Be that as it may it's a necessity that Hannibal won't abstain from doing simply because he doesn't find it rewarding. It's only fair. If he gets to play, he must also take the time to ensure his partner is calmed down and supported afterward. So, Hannibal Lecter finds himself laying on a rather hard futon mattress with Will on his chest. There's copious amounts of dog fur, but Hannibal reminds himself that it's nothing that will do permanent damage.

Although undoubtedly exhausted and sore, Will's mind apparently catches up to him and his muscles tense. It's nothing Hannibal isn't unprepared for and he simply remains still and let's Will work it out on his own time. Yes, they're essentially cuddling (a word Hannibal abhors) and Will is going to have some reservation about being comforted, but Will does settle because Will _needs_ this. Hannibal knows Will doesn't _want_ to, but that's fine.

Will buries his head closer in and Hannibal allows Will to hide. The answer he receives has Hannibal giving a low hum of consideration. If Will doesn't want to touch on his _emotional_ wellbeing, Hannibal will let it be for now. When he feels a soft movement by his feet, he inclines his head and sees the mongrel Zoe patter about until she, too, settles and lays down. They were one big happy family apparently...

"Whichever answer you want to give is fine as long as you're being honest," Hannibal replies congenially. His fingers scratch at Will's scalp gently and Hannibal chooses to let his eyes close. Will's weight is comfortable against him and Hannibal finds that he is actually relaxing marginally too. Perhaps that's why he says, "I may have been a little too overzealous with your punishment, Will. I apologize. However, you did take it very well. I'm both proud and impressed."

* * *

Whatever answer he wants to give so long as he's being honest. Honesty is a big thing to Hannibal then. Will isn't exactly surprised - the man is a psychiatrist after all - but it does leave him feeling uncertain as to what he's supposed to say. Honesty doesn't often go well for him, because Will is a blunt man. Often times people claim they want honesty but in reality they don't. They want the illusion of honesty but the moment the words aren't in their favor, they take offense. Will wonders if Hannibal will react the same way, but a part of him doubts it. He'd been annoyed when Will had dismissed a compliment earlier (fuck, Hannibal really had called him _lovely_ , hadn't he?) but Will suspects he'd been more annoyed with how Will had phrased it.

As thoughtful as he can be while exhausted and feeling drained, Will considers the moment for a few seconds and then he merely sighs and closes his eyes. This close, though he hates being seen as weak, it _is_ comforting to feel a grounding warmth and the pressure of Hannibal's arm on his back and the fingers in his hair feels like reassurance. Will tries to pretend that he doesn't care, doesn't _need_ this, but he knows he does. Knowing that despite the punishment Hannibal isn't so mad as to just leave him is reassuring.

Bit by bit, Will begins to relax. It's slow and uncertain, like a dog slowly creeping closer to food but wary of the hand offering it. Hannibal's fingers scratch lightly at his scalp and Will can feel him relaxing as well and it's a decent feeling, exactly what he doesn't want to need, but does.

He isn't expecting the apology, nor is he expecting the praise. Eyes opening - and when had he gotten so tired? - Will shifts just enough to chance a small look up at Hannibal and catches sight of his relaxed expression and closed eyes and something intensely relieved and pleased slides through him. Will swallows. The burn to his skin is severe and his ass is going to be a mess of bruises later, a reminder of what _not_ to do, but the fact he's impressed Hannibal is a good feeling.

"So this wasn't the bottom of the scale?" Will asks, and he tries to sound amused or sardonic but it just comes out exhausted. "Good. I was beginning to worry this was a one on the scale. Didn't want to know how bad it'd be if I fucked up enough to earn a ten. But... it's fine. I think. I'm not angry." He isn't. It's a surprise even to him. "And... I _am_ sorry for leaving you waiting."

* * *

Honesty is important to Hannibal. Patients lied far too often, ever resistant to face the ugly or inconvenient truths of themselves and more concerned with protecting their sensitive self-images. Of course he understands, but he's not on the clock and he would much prefer to 'cut the crap' as Will would say. During his private time, Hannibal chooses when and where he will tolerate mendacity. Thankfully, Will had been honest with him tonight. It may have started out rather rocky, but after their 'arrangement' had been made, Will seemed to settle down and be willing to jump back into the water. While Will hadn't been completely honest (as he'd somewhat restrained himself from vocalizing pain), Will tolerated the spanking admirably and answered when spoken to. Will's now giving into the honest need to be held and Hannibal is more than capable of giving it to him.

Zoe is a warmth by his leg. He can feel the rise and fall of her breathing and hear her soft snorts Hannibal finds that he doesn't actually mind her presence all that much. His fingers continue to scratch at Will's scalp. After his apology, Hannibal can feel Will shift slightly, likely looking up at him. Hannibal keeps his eyes shut. He's not embarrassed at being caught resting. If Will's feels and sees him relaxing, Will ought to have an easier time following suit. Exhaustion likely has facilitated Will relaxing up until the point. At the mention of a scale, Hannibal's lips twitch. Leave it to Will to be concerned about how he measures up.

Will's own admission of not being angry, while not necessary, is still nice to hear. Hannibal hadn't expected Will to harbor any anger, but coming down from a scene could be emotionally intense in different ways - it would be entirely possible for Will to get upset and want to blame Hannibal for the pain he was experiencing. This isn't the case, though. Will understands that he had made a mistake, but having Will apologize again has Hannibal's hand stilling for a moment. Hannibal swallows, his arm curling tighter around Will's torso.

"I know you are, but the issue has been dealt with so I don't want you dwelling on such a mistake," Hannibal murmurs. He knows Will likes to ruminate on his mistakes and this is exactly what Hannibal doesn't want Will to do. "And as you've inquired, assuming a standard one-to-ten scale for a degree, I would say that punishment was a solid seven."

* * *

Hannibal's fingers still in Will's hair for a moment and Will immediately wonders if he's said something wrong. With the release of tension and the intense last few minutes (or an hour, he has no idea) he's not exactly censoring himself the way he probably should be. Exhaustion is etched into every side of him and even the critical whispers in his mind have decided to ease slightly. So of course Will is left to wonder if he's said something incriminating. Before he can find the words to apologize or question Hannibal about why he'd stopped, he feels the arm around him suddenly tighten and press him closer. Will doesn't tense this time. Stubborn as he can be, the proximity is what he needs and the pressure is a reminder that Hannibal _has_ him.

He's beginning to understand why Hannibal had suggested this. Barring drinking himself into a stupor, Will can't remember the last time he's felt this good. Mentally, anyway; his ass hurts like a bitch, but even the pain is distracting, throwing up a mental roadblock to intensely critical thoughts. If Hannibal's sadism flares and then ebbs into comfort immediately after, he can tentatively see the point. If this is the reward for submission, Will's willing to consider it.

That consideration only increases when Hannibal adds what he does. The issue has been dealt with. Fuck. That's a novel thought. Doing something wrong, facing a punishment, and then having the whole thing be absolved _completely_ is not something he's ever experienced. Sure, that's the whole basis behind religion, but Will's never subscribed to the concept. Though with Hannibal, following that intensity and this comfort, it _does_ feel like absolution. Will finally lets himself relax, his eyes closing and cheek pressing closer to Hannibal's chest as Zoe gives a sleepy-snuffle down somewhere around Hannibal's legs and Will hears the 'click' of dogs' nails on the floor as the rest of the pack arrange themselves around them.

"Fingers crossed I never fuck up enough to reach a ten," Will murmurs back, but even his tone is a little less snide. It's lazier with exhaustion. Emotional stress and prolonged pain are draining and this close he can hear Hannibal's heartbeat and feel the strength in his arm. For now, maybe it won't kill him to allow this.

* * *

Hannibal is not going to explain that this activity is referred to as 'aftercare,' the very term would undo any of the relaxation Will has thus far achieved. Maybe he will at a later date when Will is not so up in arms and sensitive about submitting and all it entailed. In time the strangeness of their arrangement should begin to normalize for Will. For now, Hannibal holds him and strokes through sweaty hair. Despite the smell of dogs, and the clumps of fur that will undoubtedly be attached to his clothing, Hannibal finds a measure of tranquility in the present moment.

"Indeed,' Hannibal murmurs and... he finds that he is actually being sincere. Although he may like to witness Will in pain, especially when he is the cause, he doesn't wish Will to actively disappoint him to the degree of needing such a severe punishment. Before he may have been more interested in breaking down Will Graham... Now, building him _up_ may be an interesting option to pursue. It would be a step toward equality, a state that they're very much nowhere near at the moment in their dealings. The possibility is intriguing - maybe even daunting, but Hannibal can surely handle it.

"Just rest, Will."

Will listens and says nothing. The exhaustion shall soon give way to sleep and this is when Hannibal will take his leave. He is still save for the hand petting at Will's head - not his dog - but his good boy (perhaps an actual friend later, perhaps an equal...) When he's certain Will has dropped off, Hannibal extracts himself carefully from Will's hold, slips out of the 'bed' and covers Will with a blanket. He gives Zoe a quick rub before returning to the kitchen and washing his hands. He momentarily considers leaving the pot as a reminder to Will of their evening, but Hannibal decides not to. He collects his jacket and the pot before turning off the lights.

The dogs lift their heads as he carefully maneuvers his way through them and while he slips on his shoes, Hannibal addresses Winston, "You take care of him now." With that said, Hannibal leaves Will to rest under the safety of his pack.


	4. Help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Instead he thinks about the weight of Hannibal's hand and the touch of his thumb. His irritation spikes a little that this is even _helping_ in the first place and then Hannibal's thumb presses in harder and Will draws in a slightly sharper breath. Immediately he glances over at Abigail, embarrassed, but she seems perfectly content to make her way around the garden. Will doesn't kid himself that she's not watching. He just takes a moment to mentally kick himself in order to get a fucking _grip_. He'd been dealing with this shit for a long time before Hannibal. The only difference is the sickness and the lingering hallucinations. He takes a very pointed breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ◦°˚\\(*❛‿❛)/˚°◦ And we're back! This time with some Abigail and then phone fun. Let us know what you think!
> 
> Hannibal written by Merrythought ([tumblr](http://merrythought.tumblr.com)) | Will written by Dapperscript ([tumblr](http://reallymisscoffee.tumblr.com/))
> 
> As always, a big thank you to [ TempestandTeacup](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TempestandTeacup/pseuds/TempestandTeacup) for editing this!  
> Also, the Italian translation is courtesy of the lovely [Donnie](http://donnietz.tumblr.com/)! Thanks, dear! (All the Italian is translated if you keep reading, btw.)

The next day Hannibal invites Will to meet him at the Port Haven Psychiatric Facility to visit with Abigail. The last time they'd all been together was the dinner with Freddie Lounds. Abigail had been able to pick up on Will's unease about her involvement in Nicholas Boyle's death rather easily. Hannibal is hoping to smooth things over between them. They are, after all, a family of sorts, keeping one another's secrets. Of course, certain family members have more secrets...

He waits in the lobby for Will, a mild expression on his face as he watches the staff hustle about. Hannibal hopes Abigail will play nicely today, but there's no guarantee that she will. Teenage girls can be volatile creatures and Will _is_ delicate.

* * *

The Port Haven Psychiatric Facility is a looming beacon of everything Will hates. He stands outside of it for a long few minutes upon arriving but it takes him time to build himself up enough to willingly walk into the lion's den. Much like the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, the very thought of the tall white walls sends small frissons of panic through him. While Will knows the assumption is faulty, he can't shake the feeling that any of the nurses or psychiatrists within will be able to take one look at him and _know_ he's supposed to be admitted instead of escorted through. The only reason Will had agreed to this had been Hannibal's request. It has admittedly been a long while since he'd seen Abigail - or it feels like it - but Will is still leery. He has no idea how to speak with Abigail Hobbs, now more than ever. She had been a success. Now... now Will's not sure what she is.

But she's his. _Theirs_. His and Hannibal's, in a sense. Will draws a slow, trembling breath of the damp air outside and then he finally pulls his jacket tighter around himself before stepping inside.

Stepping inside is also a problem as it entails _walking_. Will's had plenty of time to think about the night before. He'd woken up, remembered the whole thing, and had been both disappointed and relieved to see Hannibal gone. Then had come the discomfort of dressing, of walking, of doing anything that put friction or pressure against his ass and his thighs. He'd chanced a look in the mirror only once and it had been enough for him. There are already bruises forming, red and growing darker, and walking is a lesson in pain. Will has never hated jeans quite so much as he does now, but at least the discomfort is enough of a distraction to enable him to walk into the psychiatric facility without darting out.

When Will finally sees Hannibal he feels an odd slide of embarrassment burn hot in his chest. The desire to avoid eye contact is strong but Will merely adjusts his glasses as he steps over. How the fuck are you supposed to address someone who spanked your ass raw the night before and wasn't there in the morning? Fuck.

He chooses the safe route. "Good, uh... good morning. I called Sut-- Dr. Sutcliffe to reschedule. Apologized. Hopefully it won't reflect poorly on you now," Will says. He doesn't meet Hannibal's eyes and he can't fool himself that Hannibal hasn't noticed his limp.

* * *

Abigail Hobbs is a rather intriguing girl. Well, young woman is perhaps the more accurate descriptor. Undoubtedly Will is still struggling with the realization that she'd actually been directly _involved_ in Nicholas Boyle's death. Her hands may have been shaking, but they still had plunged the hunting knife into his body. The rose-tinted glasses have been ripped from Will's face and Abigail Hobbs can no longer be seen as innocent. Once she was thought to be Will's victory, but she's ended a life and Will has indirectly facilitated a death by first saving her. Save a life, take a life... it's rather an easy line to cross. Hannibal can relate.

When he spots Will enter the facility, Hannibal's eyes widen at the sight of the man. When Will walks, his discomfort is obvious. Although this is pleasing, Hannibal maintains a neutral expression. He has a professional appearance to maintain here as well. However, it's a nice image to ruminate on - that with each step, the fabric of boxers is chaffing against sore, reddened skin. It's a lesson Will hopefully won't forget. Hannibal is patient, but courtesy goes a long way.

There is an air of unease around Will, likely due to nervousness pertaining to Abigail _and_ the establishment itself. Hannibal is of course aware of Will's apprehension toward mental health professionals. Oh, and Hannibal's certain that Will is unsure how to deal with _him_ as well. After all, they had entered into their arrangement only last night as well as it being Will's first official foray into submission and punishment. While Hannibal is naturally fine with what transpired, it's still new to Will.

Will neglects eye contact, but Hannibal merely nods his head. Given how Will avoided him following the hair pulling a week ago, Hannibal's pleased that Will is out at all, especially after a rather intense spanking. He honestly hadn't been expecting Will to come. "Hello Will, thank you for letting me know and joining me today. Shall we?" Once Will signs in, the two of them head toward Abigail Hobbs' room and Hannibal is curious what shall unfold.

* * *

Signing in is the easy part, though Will checks a few times to make sure Hannibal has done the same. It's crazy, but he still feels like he's signing himself in for a completely different reason; Will _really_ hates psychiatric facilities.

He follows Hannibal in silence. To be fair, this isn't exactly new. When out and around other people, Will rarely feels the need to fill any silence that might arise. He and Hannibal speak primarily during their sessions, not out in public. These last few days have been the exception. So as Will follows Hannibal down a too-bright hallway with corkboard bulletins on the walls every now and then, Will keeps his head down and focuses on walking normally. Driving had been a literal pain in the ass, and walking at least offers a nice distraction. Will only needs to glance at one of the bulletin boards once before his lips twist. Clip-Art of a smiley face is superimposed over a headline of ' _Depression and Anxiety Support Group'_ that is apparently meeting in the facility every Wednesday evening. Will _really_ hates psychiatric hospitals.

It's almost a relief when they reach Abigail's room, except upon opening the door and stepping in, Will changes his mind immediately. His posture shifts at least. He makes a concentrated effort to stand taller, trying to match Hannibal to only mild success. Anything he'd been planning on saying suddenly dives right out the fucking window because Abigail is there, sitting in bed with a book that Will thinks he remembers Alana talking about once. She looks up at them both and only glances at Will once before her attention diverts to Hannibal and stays there. He doesn't know what to do with that.

"Hey. I didn't know you were coming today," Abigail says as she rifles beside her for a moment and then pulls out a longer red ribbon from under her pillow. She folds it and then slips it between the pages of her book and then sets it aside, offering Hannibal a mildly disparaging smile. "A gift from Dr. Bloom. Fills the time. Do... do you want to sit down, or do you want to go walking outside? It's so _boring_ in here," she adds, with only a hint of desperation.

Will just watches her and blinks. One blink she's simply Abigail Hobbs, and the next he can see her with her hands shaking and bloodied, a hunting knife held clutched between them superimposed over her image. He reaches up and lifts his glasses so that he can rub at his eyes and misses the glance Abigail sends him and the uncertain, questioning frown she then turns on Hannibal. Clearly neither of them really know what to do with the other.

* * *

Hannibal cannot imagine himself working in a psychiatric facility or ward. He greatly enjoys the comforts afforded to him in having his own practice. It allows him the convenience of making his own schedule and the added bonus of not having to deal with other so-called professionals. In his office, it's simply two individuals sitting across from one another--one coming with problems, the other listening and offering potential insight. Of course, it has the possibility of a greater intimacy, but it almost never reaches that point. Most of the time it's not engaging, but Hannibal is well versed at feigning care and interest. Will is an exception to this, but then again Will is not his patient. Not technically. Hannibal finds himself wondering what kind of conversation they shall have during their next appointment and he's even looking forward to it.

Hannibal can sense the growing unease from Will, but he does nothing to try and remedy it. Will is a grown man and Hannibal must not coddle him all the time. He follows in step with Will, a pleasant enough expression on his face as they make their way to Abigail's room. He has no real issue at being in such a place. He knows he is sane, although many would likely not see him that way. Upon entering the room, Hannibal notes Abigail's preference to address _him_ rather than Will. This isn't surprising in the least. They all may be family, but Abigail and Hannibal have many more secrets shared between them than Will is privy to.

"We thought you could use a surprise," Hannibal says in explaining their appearance and offering a small smile to Abigail. A moment later Will seems to become slightly more agitated, adjusting his glasses and rubbing at his eyes. Hannibal's smile falters briefly as Abigail looks between the two of them, clearly confused. Hannibal steps closer to Will, close enough that his hand can reach behind and rest on the small of Will's back. As he does so, he speaks up, "Paying another visit to the garden area would be nice. Does that sound agreeable to you, Abigail?" He will need to move things along. Hannibal thinks it would likely be better for Will to be among flora compared to anything that resembles a hospital.

He gives her an encouraging look and Abigail slowly slides off the bed, placing her book on the night stand. "Sure, that's fine," she answers with a shrug, adjusting her scarf around her neck and swinging her arms by her side.

* * *

Abigail Hobbs killed Nicholas Boyle in self-defense, and Hannibal had helped her cover it up by hiding the body. The knowledge repeats itself in the back of Will's mind like an insidious whisper, and he finds himself wishing to go outside preemptively. It's suddenly stifling in this room because it goes against everything Will has ever allowed before. Abigail killed someone and Will has officially helped her cover it up by remaining silent. But Hannibal's soft words in his office that night - a gentle question as to whether or not he needed to call his lawyer - had left him little choice. They are her fathers now. They are responsible for her where Garret Jacob Hobbs never was, but it still doesn't escape his notice that Abigail looks to Hannibal first and stays there.

Will doesn't want to blink too hard for fear of inviting Hobbs into the happy little family. While the fevers are slowly getting better on the medication, the hallucinations have not stopped. Will tries not to dwell on that.

The sudden touch of Hannibal's hand to the small of his back - familiar in its weight - is enough to get Will to jerk a little. He stands immediately straighter with a quick glance at Hannibal before reluctantly doing what Hannibal likely intends. He draws a measure of comfort from the touch and wonders somewhat bitterly if that is a silent 'good boy'. Will breathes through the worst of the bitterness - over Abigail's lack of innocence and over a small twist of jealousy that shouldn't have a place in his chest - and then nods his input.

Abigail walks ahead of them when she leads the way to the garden area of the facility only minutes later. Will walks beside Hannibal because people keep _looking_ at him when he walks a few steps behind. They still get attention when walking together but at least there's a measure of calm that seems to come from Hannibal that keeps Will's nerves at bay. He does his best to hide the limp and any wincing and just breathes through it, making a mental note to never skip out on an appointment again without saying so if _this_ is the punishment for it. His ass stings and his thoughts are tumultuous while within too-white-walls.

Will visibly relaxes a little the moment the scenery changes. Stark white walls and strong hints of antiseptic bleed out of the area around them in favor of green leaves and the slightly humid scent of hundreds of potted plants and flowers. Will breathes in slowly and his rapid-fire pulse begins to slow.

"How have you been?" He asks, throat unclenching enough to talk. His voice isn't steady, but at least he's trying.

Abigail looks back at him with an odd little frown. Wariness, Will thinks. She knows that he knows, then. She recovers admirably though and reaches up after a moment to touch her fingers to her scarf. It's an automatic movement, something she's likely been doing for weeks without noticing, and then her shoulders roll in a small shrug.

"Fine." It's clearly all she intends to say before she glances at Hannibal. Whatever she sees on his face prompts her into adding, "I still don't like it here. They keep trying to make me open up and _share_. It's annoying."

* * *

Although this will be difficult, dealing with Abigail Hobbs is important for Will. Hannibal also knows that he wants Will outside and among _people_. Perhaps Abigail is not the best of company, but she's important to Will. Will's image of an innocent Abigail Hobbs has been shattered and while it's expected that there's a time to mourn the loss of an ideal, it's now time to rebuild and move forward. Will cannot be coddled and shy away from the uncomfortable truth he's aware of. Will knows Abigail Hobbs had a part in Nicholas Boyle's death, but not that she was an accomplice in her father's killings. This piece of information is not to be revealed yet, for Will is in a delicate place. But Hannibal's certain this secret cannot remain hidden indefinitely. Secret lives only remain secret for so long and he has a suspicion that Jack Crawford is still digging.

They walk in silence but Hannibal feels no need to fill it with small talk. Abigail, feeling comfortable enough to want to assert her independence, leads them while Will initially walks behind him. After a few cursory looks at their one-by-one formation, Will scoots up to walk next to him. Hannibal is at ease as they make their way through the now familiar facility. There's only so much an establishment can do to try and temper the institutional feel of such a place. While it's not as dismal as a hospital, the Port Haven Psychiatric Facility is _still_ a place where those suffering from mental illness are kept to recover and heal. Will, however, likely sees it as a potential cage with staff who would be awkwardly wielding tools to attempt to break into his fiercely guarded mind - to tinker with a marvelous machine of which they could never hope to understand its workings.

Hannibal doesn't want anyone to tinker with Will Graham, for surely the perpetrator would try and temper the volatility, to eradicate the eccentricities and to destroy the vast potential. It would be under the claim of treating the instability and to make him 'better,' more close to what the world perceives as healthy and normal. Hannibal's not going to allow that to happen. Will doesn't need to be better; Will just needs him and together they will navigate any oncoming rapids. He is Will's paddle after all.

When they enter the garden area, it's an onslaught of competing scents. It's almost enough to bring on a headache, but Hannibal doesn't let any of his irritation show. The change of scenery is for Will and Abigail and not for him. He knew what he would be greeted with - a slew of mixed perennials, a mish-mash of fragrances from the wide variety of plants and none of them working together well. Hannibal feels a sliver of pride that Will comes out and initiates conversation. When Abigail gives him the curt answer of 'fine' and then looks to Hannibal, Hannibal's eyebrows draw in into something akin to disappointment and she gets the hint to give a real answer.

Hannibal's face relaxes once she opens up and gives a complaint they've heard before. "Well, my dear, you know they won't be satisfied you're processing and recovering until you've gone through their song and dance." It's not something he'd normally say to someone in her position - especially in front of Will - but perhaps he wishes for more open channels between all three of them.

"Well their song and dance is getting old," Abigail shoots back, but Hannibal can tell that she's glad he hadn't gone with a lecture. As she's a smart girl and knows that Hannibal wants her to talk to Will, she glances back over to him. "Hannibal told me you were sick. Feeling better now?"

* * *

There's a small part of Will that wants to resent the obvious closeness that Abigail and Hannibal share but he simply notices the thoughts and then merely sets them aside, deeming them unimportant. It makes sense. Abigail has been through a lot - has _killed_ \- and Hannibal had been the one to help her. Of course it changes things, deepens their relationship. Will was a cop, and he's technically working for Jack. It makes _sense_ that Abigail would call Hannibal but it doesn't make it easier to stomach. Worse than that, though, is the knowledge that - had Abigail called him - he likely would have tried to convince her to tell Jack. Will isn't used to the idea of doing the _right thing_ causing shame.

He tries to set aside the quick flash of jealousy; it's not productive. Will doesn't need Hannibal to tell him that he needs to build a better relationship with Abigail, especially now. So he makes a concentrated effort to ease his posture. He shifts slowly, rolling his shoulders out, but he at least has the presence of mind to hold back any attempt at smiling. This close to a psychiatric hospital, Will knows he'd likely just wind up looking manic. So he does what he can to relax. standing a little taller and breathing a little deeper. He's mostly managed to work the desire to fidget free from his posture when Hannibal speaks, and Will initially thinks nothing of it. Then the words register and Will blinks twice before looking at Hannibal in mild surprise.

He's never heard Hannibal dismiss psychiatry before. He's never heard him speak ill of another professional before, and Will's so surprised by it that he almost misses it when Abigail turns her attention to him. Glancing from Hannibal to Abigail and back again all in the span of a few seconds, Will blinks and then looks back at Abigail, reaching up to rub at his face. So much for put together.

"I... Uh. Yes. Yes, mostly," he stammers, and after a moment it's his turn to send Hannibal a silent look, as if he's uncertain how to handle being Abigail's sole attention. "It's fine. I'm fine. Thanks to Hannibal."

Abigail looks at him with the faintest of frowns. She glances to Hannibal again quickly (which again sparks that jealousy) and then she somewhat awkwardly lifts her arms and crosses them over her chest. Conversation. They're both expected to make conversation, and it's clear that the _both_ of them are feeling the strain. (Will doesn't even want to think of how disastrous this would be inside the building.)

"Was it...you know, more than a cold? He didn't say."

Will grimaces. He suddenly wants to sit, to have grounding for any further conversation. It doesn't matter that his ass is going to be a measure of agony. Feeling this out of his depth is agony enough, so Will clears his throat and makes a vague gesture to one of the benches in the place and then walks over. He sits gingerly and can almost feel Hannibal watching, but Abigail just looks a little concerned.

"Encephalitis. A brain... thing. Swelling."

"Like a concussion?"

"Infection. Hannibal smelled it before it could do damage." Or so Will is hoping. He's honestly not that sure. "It's not contagious or anything. Just... stress. Or something."

* * *

He once had a charge, a responsibility for another life. Hannibal once had Mischa Lecter to take care of, to watch her as she grew and changed, as she learned and interacted with the world around her. She'd been his constant shadow, following him as he explored the grounds, pretending to read books she could not understand while he read (he often just ended up reading to her). He can remember her tiny form when she'd been born, reflecting on how utterly dependent she was on those around her. Hannibal had touched a plump cheek, had let her small hand wrap around his index finger. She was blood. His family. A little sister. And he would be the big brother to keep her safe. At least that's what he had believed at the time. Abigail does remind him of Mischa. A part of him despises her for it. He despises the intelligence in her wide eyes and how there's an innocence that persists despite her traumatic experiences. Hannibal is careful to never let such sentiment show to Will or her. The part of him that sees Abigail Hobbs as a surrogate daughter outweighs the more petty emotions anyhow.

Hannibal is aware of Will's jealousy. He's noticed Will looking between the two of them a few times now. He knows it had bothered Will to learn of the shared secret - of Boyle's death. Abigail trusts _him_ a great deal more than Will, but Will is working for Jack Crawford, and Jack is the very man that suspects her, so not much can be done about that. All Hannibal can do is be insistent that Abigail try and converse with Will, although the jealousy is endearing on some level. What else would Will Graham be jealous over, he wonders.

His reply to Abigail - belittling the system and his profession - has surprised Will. The man looks unsure what to do with such knowledge. But Abigail's attention and question has Will rubbing at his face and stumbling over the answer. Abigail looks to Hannibal once again. Hannibal's face is impassive, but it sends the message. Abigail needs to continue to try. Hannibal is not here to rescue her again. Of the two of them, Abigail is actually more adept at keeping conversation going than Will, and she does so by inquiring more on Will's health. Hannibal watches Will flounder and choose to sit down on a bench. This is actually surprising that Will has chosen to endure the agony of sitting and being more grounded than standing and feeling afloat. Hannibal strides over, going behind the bench, and positions himself directly behind Will. Abigail and Will converse, Will explains the encephalitis (rather badly) and Abigail accepts it with a nod.

"Well, it's good you're doing better then," she replies, simply looking at the two of them with a note of curiosity.

"Yes, he is on the mend and should fully recover _if_ he takes care of himself," Hannibal says and his right hand comes to rest on Will's shoulder. Abigail sees the touch. What's interesting to her is that the touch _stays._ She's observed him touch Will before, but they were casual and brief in nature - nothing that remained.

"Doctor's orders?" she jokes before going over to the more shaded area of the greenhouse, checking out the acanthus plants and leaving them alone. Clever girl.

Hannibal brushes the pad of his thumb against the back of Will's nape before pressing in harder. "You ought to relax. She senses your nervousness," Hannibal murmurs.

* * *

Hannibal walks in behind the bench and Will feels his focus split almost immediately. He's torn between the conversation with Abigail and Hannibal's presence behind him. Like this, off balance and still riding high on the stress of the other night and the reality of where he is, the desire to let Hannibal take over is almost overwhelming. Will just nods in response to what Abigail says. It _is_ good that he's doing better. Will doesn't want to even think where he'd be right now if Hannibal hadn't figured out what the problem was. Unfortunately 'doing better' is also subjective as far as his mental health is concerned. Will knows this isn't a great place for him to be hard on himself considering the particular fears he has, but he can't help but be _very_ aware that his attempt at conversation is hardly even scraping by.

He's both relieved and irritated when Hannibal cuts in, but Will still takes the time needed to reach up and carefully nudge his glasses out of the way. He rubs at his eyes again - they'll be bloodshot before long - and though Hannibal likely doesn't mean the comment negatively, Will still flinches a little bit. ' _ **If** he takes care of himself_.' Will wants to argue, insist he's perfectly capable, but the evidence speaks for itself. He bites his lip instead and he's already planning to just nod his way through this until he manages to get a grip again. Then there's a weight on his shoulder, somewhat familiar and purposeful and Will stills immediately. That Abigail even notices is enough to make him feel mildly unsettled, but the firm touch - a weight, pressing him down, warmer than his own skin - is distracting, almost grounding. Will swallows and drops his hand and he only distantly notices Abigail walking away to give them privacy. (He isn't going to think about that.)

Instead he thinks about the weight of Hannibal's hand and the touch of his thumb. His irritation spikes a little that this is even _helping_ in the first place and then Hannibal's thumb presses in harder and Will draws in a slightly sharper breath. Immediately he glances over at Abigail, embarrassed, but she seems perfectly content to make her way around the garden. Will doesn't kid himself that she's not watching. He just takes a moment to mentally kick himself in order to get a fucking _grip_. He'd been dealing with this shit for a long time before Hannibal. The only difference is the sickness and the lingering hallucinations. He takes a very pointed breath.

Then Hannibal speaks and Will wants to bristle. He bites it back instead and shifts, squirming against the bench until he remembers what an _awful_ idea that is. He winces. " _Yeah_ , no shit," Will grumbles back, then winces for another reason.

"I'm... sorry, I _really_ don't like psychiatric hospitals. When I'm feeling sane they're bad enough. With all this... stuff... it's even worse. And I don't know what the fuck to say." Will flexes his hands, long stretches of his fingers before he curls them back in, gripping the loose folds in his jeans. "It's overwhelming. I keep--" but no, he's not going there. He's not telling Hannibal about the hallucinations, how he keeps seeing flashes of Abigail bloodied. "Doesn't help that I'm _sore_."

* * *

Hannibal hardly cares what conclusions Abigail may draw from his show of support to Will. He knows she may inquire later when it's just the two of them, but she wouldn't be crass about it. Abigail is naturally curious, but Hannibal thinks she may want to observe more and deliberate on her own. Abigail is insightful enough, Hannibal doubts that it will take her long. Abigail is also on borrowed time. Hannibal knows Jack Crawford still suspects her involvement with her father. Nicholas Boyle may have been found and Abigail had claimed to pass the test, but Hannibal has no doubt that Jack hasn't given up. Will Hannibal try to save her? Her continued existence is a threat to him as well. Each secret shared between them is courting danger, but she meant so much to Will Graham (and himself if he were to admit it). Taking her away would perhaps be the nail in the coffin so to speak. Hannibal doesn't think Will is strong enough to weather such a storm yet. Maybe she would be able to continue to live, to slither away with the shadows from her past remaining locked up in a closet like one does with their skeletons. Time always had a way of exposing the truth...

Hannibal also has no doubt that Will is mildly irritated at being providing with any measure of comfort, both in terms of it being semi-public and in the presence of Abigail. It will take time to break down Will's resentment of requiring such a thing. Men are not often supported in seeking or drawing support -- especially from other men. Will's also had years of very little acceptance and help given to him. Hannibal has no qualms in providing this grounding touch for Will, especially because Will doesn't actively seek his attention either (unlike a certain woman he knows).

When Hannibal presses his thumb in harder, it elicits a sharper breath from Will. Hannibal is pleased by this reaction but he doesn't let it show on his face. His words, predictably, are not pleasing to Will and they actually have Will fidgeting. Naturally Will quickly realizes the error he's made and he's muttering out profanity. To Hannibal's somewhat surprise, an apology is what comes next. Hannibal's lips twitch imperceptibly. Perhaps Will is trying to be on better behavior, or perhaps he doesn't want another punishment. Either way, Hannibal is glad there is a forthcoming apology and also an explanation of why Will is cagey (not that one is needed).

_'It's overwhelming. I keep--'_

And that has Hannibal truly curious because Will elects to cut himself off. His curiosity is piqued, Will dangling bait and then snatching it away. It would almost be cruel if Will had meant to do it. Hannibal's hand wraps around Will's neck and squeezes once.

"While some secrets are healthy, secrets from your therapist are less so." Hannibal's fingers curl slightly and he lets his nails graze Will's neck. "You have me quite curious, but I won't ask. Not here and not now at least and we needn't stay long."

* * *

Will honestly thinks nothing of Hannibal's curiosity. With the fever still buzzing away in the back of his mind and the exhaustion from the medication he's been taking, Will's filter and focus are nowhere near where they likely should be. Add that to his panic over being where he is and he's not giving much thought to what he says or what he doesn't say. He only just remembers not to mention to Hannibal that the hallucinations haven't stopped. There's a thin hope in the back of Will's mind that it's just the residual encephalitis. After all, the sleepwalking has stopped and his nightmares aren't as vivid as they had been. Likewise the hallucinations aren't as vibrant as they had been even a few months ago. Maybe there's still a chance that this will all just leave.

The press of Hannibal's hand to the back of his neck catches Will off guard but it's not a spike of terrified adrenaline that shoots through him. Instead Will just goes still, his pulse picking up. There's a small voice in the back of his head that insists he shouldn't find this comforting at all especially considering what Hannibal had done just the other night, but there's something very grounding in the weight and pressure. Will's lets himself briefly think about other ends of the spectrum and the comfort sometimes found in weighted blankets and he wonders briefly if that's where Hannibal's rationale is coming from. Or, he mentally adds, it could be as simple as this is something dominant in nature. The word _submissive_ squirms through his memory again and Will begins to shift before the gentle press of nails brings him back down. Definitely something dominant.

Will glances over at Abigail again, and while she does glance vaguely at them, she merely offers the both of them a small smile before turning away. Her fingers trace over a few of the leaves on the plants ahead of her and Will's tension over being seen eases a little. There's no blatant staring or frowns of confusion. Abigail doesn't seem to mind so why does he mind so much? Will frowns a little deeper and glances away, reaching up to rub at his face again with a small grimace. Hannibal's voice is steady and calm; Will just feels unsteady and anxious.

"I don't..." Will begins, then frowns. "I don't want this to limit me. I _want_ to see her, I just... don't know how to talk to her yet." He doesn't say that it's easier in his hallucinations, that Abigail just _likes him_ and isn't wary regarding him and it's _easy_. Somehow even Will knows how petulant that would sound. "I'm just still feeling off is all," he adds, reluctantly. Will doesn't admit to weakness often, but Hannibal had had his pants down around his ankles, his palm reddening Will's ass not too long ago. Shame (while very tempting) is hardly a good idea now. "I don't like the steroids."

* * *

There's always been a keen interest in Will Graham. Upon first hearing about him - about what he could supposedly do - Hannibal knew at once that he wanted to learn more about Alana Bloom's so called 'friend.' A referral had them meeting in front of Jack and Will had been brusque, but candid. Hannibal honestly had felt charmed by the terseness, for it was Will demonstrating an urgency to guard himself (and fiercely guarded individuals usually had delectable secrets). Could Hannibal ever have predicted that the interest would transition into actual _intrigue_? No, but he can appreciate surprises every once in awhile and Will tuly is a surprise that keeps giving. Hannibal folds back one layer and instead of growing bored or indifferent to what is revealed, there's always something else that catches his eye. Will has remained captivating, and beneath Will's uncertainty and harsh judgments toward himself, Hannibal believes there is a potential for Will to become so much _more._

But for now, Hannibal must keep Will contained, for he is in a rather fragile state of being. He will hold Will's pieces together, but oh, he seeks to be the catalyst for Will's fracturing as well. He wants to step on the icy landscape of Will's psyche and be the incident that has the ice splintering and cracking off. Afterward, he would partake in a sort of Kintsugi or Kintsukuroi -- the Japanese art of repairing broken ceramics or pottery with a lacquer that contained powdered gold, silver, or platinum. Hannibal does not require Will Graham to be unbroken and without flaws. Hannibal would see him broken and beaten down but then mended, and in his repair Will would be more beautiful because of such a journey.

So, he keeps his his hand on Will's neck. He knows what Will needs, even if Will seeks to fight him. He's proven right with every second that Will endures the contact. Hannibal watches as Will casts a look over to Abigail. She merely shoots them a small smile before busying herself. He will have to commend her courteousness later in private, for it shows a blossoming maturity he wishes to see more of within Abigail Hobbs. Will she move on from victimhood and her father's shadow? Time will tell.

Hannibal listens to Will's struggles, his eyes looking straight ahead at the mishmash of flora that surrounds them. By now he's more accustomed to the conflicting scents at least.

"I hear and understand your concerns, and it's important you understand limitations - both your own and Abigail's," Hannibal begins softly and his hand wraps tight around Will's neck, the tips of his fingers pressing in hard enough to make Will's skin blanch underneath them. "You undoubtedly understand why Abigail gravitates toward me and why she is at at odds with you. It will take time to build trust, for her to realize you are on her side. Limitations exist for a reason, but they're not necessarily a permanent fixture."

His grip eases before he makes to join Abigail. Hannibal believes Will would do well with some time to think.

* * *

_'Limitations exist for a reason, but they're not necessarily a permanent fixture_. _'_

Will isn't aware of just how much he craves the press of Hannibal's fingers against his neck until the touch is suddenly gone. He'd been listening closely, and while Will does feel out of his element and caught, Hannibal is a steady figure in his life by now. He's grounding and insightful and Will isn't dumb enough to ignore the benefit of that. So when Hannibal pulls away, Will's thoughts suddenly hitch and race. He understands why Abigail doesn't trust him but that doesn't make the reality any easier. Once again, interacting with people is not Will's strong point. That Hannibal seems to willingly want to spend time around him is a constant surprise.

For a very real moment, Will drags in a breath to ask Hannibal to come back, to do... _something_. He feels markedly unsteady and without the touch to his neck he feels more adrift. Before he says anything though, shame creeps back in, a stubbornness that Will is a goddamn adult and he shouldn't _need_ grounding. There are millions of people who can handle this sort of shit just fine without needing to be babied. So while discomfort and stress curl inside, Will just breathes through it and watches as Hannibal walks over to Abigail. He knows Hannibal intends him to think on what had been said, and he does. He also just looks, watching how _easy_ Hannibal seems to be able to engage Abigail in conversation. Will watches and Abigail laughs and something sour twists in his stomach.

In the end, they don't stay for much longer. Will does manage to drag himself up onto his feet and communicate a little, but it's clear Abigail is far more interested in talking to Hannibal. She keeps glancing at him whenever Will asks a question and Will is uncomfortably reminded that Abigail has _killed_ and had gone to Hannibal for help. Is there any point in trying? They might be her fathers but it's clear to Will that Abigail only really thinks of Hannibal in that position.

He still bids her a goodbye when they leave and Will puts on his best front when he and Hannibal leave the hospital. He signs out and makes a concentrated effort to talk to Hannibal on the way out. Mindless chatter, but something that hopefully says, 'I'm well adjusted and not currently drowning in self-pity,' like he is. Maybe he makes his escape quickly, but he's got a long drive back to Wolf Trap and Will doesn't revel in it. He's low, he's sore, he's jealous, and he knows he should have asked Hannibal for _something_ , but stubbornness and pride are a constant struggle. The only thing Will really decides on the drive back home is that he _will_ make the appointment on Monday. It's been a little while since he's visited Georgia. She's always been a little easier to talk to and she's also a success story.

So Will busies himself that weekend. He rests when he has to (very grudgingly) and spends an absurd amount of time with the dogs. He doesn't avoid texts - insisting he's fine the single moment Beverly texts him because he doesn't want her to drive out and get him drunk enough to spill his shit again - and he confirms his appointment for Monday before throwing himself into something else. Will spends the whole weekend fixing a truck engine. It's not the same as a boat motor but it's the same basic principle and his neighbor is delighted. He's given more baked goods than he knows what to do with and a promise for fresh produce come harvest and his meals every night consist of the muffins that line his counter.

On Monday he makes his appointment and he brings a goddamned plate of Gert's cookies as an apology. Will makes _sure_ to apologize properly even though the act leaves him feeling irritated beyond belief. He doesn't like Sutcliffe but he doesn't make it obvious. Instead he makes sure to be a model patient so as not to fuck up Hannibal's reputation by proxy, and though a few of Sutcliffe's questions give him pause ("Are you managing six hours of sleep a night?" "Are you still having hallucinations?") he grinds his teeth and answers honestly. The end result is another course of antibiotics and steroids but Will leaves with a too-sweet guarantee that he's 'on the mend'.

He does try to visit Georgia but he's turned away by her doctor. It's done gently, insisting she'd just fallen asleep, and Will just asks the doctor to let Georgia know he'd stopped by. He leaves his number for what it's worth and he doesn't realize how unsettled he is until he makes it back home. He takes his medication and falls into a fitful, nauseated sleep that he winds up waking from because he's sore and he feels like shit. Will spares the clock a look, then gets up to feed the dogs and let them out. When he comes back inside, he's cold and exhausted but the dogs are happy. It's late, he feels like shit, and he doesn't even realize he's been thumbing Hannibal's number in his phone until he's already settled himself back into bed.

It takes Will a long few minutes to make the decision, but in the end the urge rises inside and he just gives in. He hits Hannibal's number in the contact list and lays down, draping his arm over his eyes as he holds the phone to his ear. It's only as the call connects and Will is saying, "Hey, is this a good time?" that he realizes this is one of the first times he's ever actually called Hannibal for personal reasons.

* * *

Hannibal walks over to Abigail. He feels Will's eyes follow him and it's a pleasing thought to have Will's attention linger. He assumes Will is already feeling the absence of his touch, likely missing the grounding as well, but beating himself up about it all. It's a precarious situation, one where Will _needs,_ but judges himself for possessing such needs. Time. Hannibal knows that time and patience are his allies in dealing with Will. It's not that he wishes Will _give in;_ Hannibal's aim is for Will to accept and embrace all the facets of himself. He doesn't truly desire Will to be brought low and desperate -- to be subservient. Hannibal believes Will can find a sense of power in finding pleasure in submission and pain. To both know and accept more would help Will.

"He's skittish like a deer," Abigail comments when Hannibal comes to stand by her. She shuffles a little closer to him and Hannibal allows it, glancing back at Will (who is quite obviously staring at the two of them). Hannibal makes a thoughtful sound. Right now he supposes Abigail Hobbs' observation is rather astute. Does his pursuit and interest in Will make him the hunter then? Will's certainly had a few interesting 'deer in headlights' expressions... Also, his eyes were often trusting like certain doe could be.

"Then we must take great care as to not startle him," Hannibal replies warmly. "I trust you know how to do such a thing." Her real father did teach her well.

She laughs softly in response. A few minutes pass and Will makes another effort that doesn't really go anywhere, but Hannibal appreciates it nonetheless. Strengthening the relationship between Abigail and Will would be an uphill battle, but it just needed dedication and time. Will doesn't even know everything, but Hannibal is in no rush to sentence Abigail yet, for surely Will would not be forgiving of her involvement in her father's actual murders. Not yet.

When they finally leave the facility, he watches Will walk slowly back to his car, likely sore and down on himself. Hannibal is still glad they visited, even if conversation had been stilted at times and Will had struggled.

*

Donald Sutcliffe calls him up late on Monday evening and an interesting piece of information is shared. Hannibal sounds unperturbed on the call. He's civil and he thanks his colleague for the update on Will's health. While Hannibal is pleased that Will made it to the appointment, the fact that Will is keeping a secret such as this is rather disappointing. It's also frustrating because he isn't in the position to mention it to Will for the answers had been given under the belief of doctor-patient confidentiality. Hannibal thinks of Will's bruises and tries to imagine how they would be changing colors. There's a very real desire to punish Will again, but Hannibal takes care of it himself. His hand moves quickly over his own cock as he imagines Will bent over his desk being hit with a belt. He thinks of Will's cries of pain. He fantasizes about mixing pleasure with the punishment, to have Will begging to climax, but being denied. And when Hannibal finally orgasms, it's to the thought of Will sweaty and straining, his cock smearing pre-come against his desk.

He sees Natalie the following day. He takes her out to the Inner Harbor and they eat at the Charleston. He's pleased she doesn't simply order a salad and tolerates the banal chatter coming from her. Much later, at his residence and after more wine, she performs fellatio on him and it's at least better than average. She doesn't make exaggerated sounds, but she does seek his praise, constantly looking up and trying to catch his eyes. Hannibal supposes it's not the most aggravating of habits. He decides to continue to see her. At least he's getting a small measure of sexual satisfaction from her. She stays the night and Hannibal returns the favor later. Spread out on his bed, he smiles politely at her as he descends between her legs. (In the back of his mind, he's aware that she does not make the same lovely sounds as Will.)

* * *

When his phone rings, Hannibal is asleep as he does not suffer from nightmares like Will does. The second ring wakes him. A late night phone call to his private number is rare enough so Hannibal wakes with somewhat of a start before reaching over to grab at the device and look bleary eyed at the caller ID. _Will Graham._ During the next ring he debates simply ignoring it and letting Will be denied in this action. Would Will text him? Would he call again? It's tempting, but he's too curious about the initial need that's prompted this, so Hannibal accepts the call and settles on his back as he presses the phone to his ear.

"It's certainly late," Hannibal comments, his voice sounding gruff from sleep. "But I'm awake now. What's wrong, Will?

* * *

When Will lets the dogs out, it's only ten. _Ten_ is the last number he remembers clearly, and while ten o'clock is definitely late, it's not ridiculously late. People still call at ten. They call infrequently, maybe, but given Will's schedule, he thinks he can be excused. So he thinks nothing of calling Hannibal so late, not when the desire to do so has been burning all day. For a few days, if he's being honest, which is weird enough. Will doesn't usually call Hannibal for anything other than a case, which means his desire to call now can only be resting on the sudden shift in their relationship. The knowledge makes Will squirm; he's not generally needy; he can handle his own shit. Just... apparently not tonight.

It's only when the call connects that Will realizes he's fucked up again. Hannibal's voice - when he answers - is not crisp and clear. It's gruff and slightly slurred, his accent _much_ thicker than Will is used to. The difference is immediate and Will freezes, initially confused. Then he lifts his arm and hastily checks his phone and he feels something twist in his stomach when the numbers '12:34' flash back at him. Will freezes, stilling, and immediate guilt crashes through him. He'd thought it'd been ten, and he'd wound up waking Hannibal up. Wonderful. What a perfect start.

Yet despite Will's sudden guilt, he doesn't actually regret calling. He can count his friends on one hand - on two fingers, really - and the only one Will feels comfortable calling, he's just called.

"I... fuck," Will breathes, and he _sounds_ immediately apologetic, if a little clipped. "I didn't realize it was so late. I thought it was ten. I'm sorry. I just..." Will trails off, because all of a sudden everything he'd been about to say registers and he feels like a dumbass. Why had he called and woken Hannibal up after midnight? Because he feels low and stressed and the medication is making him feel like ass. Nothing he hasn't handled _on his own_ dozens of times in the past. Way to go, Graham. "I didn't lose time," he hastens to explain, "just... haven't been present. I didn't mean to wake you up. It's okay, you can go back to sleep."

* * *

It's beyond bad practice to give one's personal number to a patient, of course. Hannibal has never crossed such a line before (and for good reason, he cannot imagine the kinds of calls he'd have received if Franklyn Froideveaux had managed to obtain his information). But Will isn't a patient. Will is his friend. Still, Hannibal usually guards his personal information fiercely. Some acquaintances he's known for years do not even have his home number and arranging a social get together is left to Hannibal Lecter to initiate. It's how he prefers it to be.

But he's not in the least bothered by being woken up by Will unless Will can't handle actually _talking_ and retreats. Hannibal's eyes close in mild irritation as Will stammers over the phone about not realizing the time and tries to psych himself up for _ending_ the call. If he's been disturbed for nothing of value to transpire, Hannibal will be more than aggravated by Will. Yes, conversations at half past midnight aren't ideal, but he _is_ curious what's bothering Will. He's Will's paddle after all;he wants to have Will back on course (his course).

"I'm awake, you might as well take advantage of my consciousness." Hannibal replies, not quite caring to be delicate with Will right now.

* * *

The more time that passes, the more Will realizes that he really doesn't have a good reason to have called. He'd just done it on autopilot because he'd felt awful. And, if Will is being honest with himself (which he doesn't like doing as of late), it had also been because the past few days have felt like shades. He remembers what he'd done, he knows _that_ he'd done it, but he feels no real emotional connection to it. There are muffins on his counter downstairs and his hands ache from fiddling with the truck engine for so long, and his arm aches a little from the blood test that Sutcliffe had taken earlier, but he feels ambivalent about it, like the events had merely been a placeholder. The only thing that stands out in stark clarity in his mind is the moment he'd believed he could talk to Georgia. Everything else since leaving Hannibal and Abigail feels half-formed. Everything except the pain in his ass, anyway.

Will wants to blame the sickness, but he can't. He's felt detached and unsteady, and removing himself from the equation had seemed like a good idea. "I... I don't know why I called," he admits, and even his tone makes it clear that he knows how awful that sounds. "I'm not feeling like myself and the last few days have been... distant, I guess. I don't know. It's probably just the medication. Sut-- Dr. Sutcliffe put me on more of it and I feel like shit, and calling you just... seemed like a good idea. You've always been good at bringing me back. I didn't realize how late it was."

* * *

From his phone conversation with Donald Sutcliffe, Hannibal is fairly certain that Will hasn't been struggling with tracking time (no need to draw anymore clocks, Hannibal hopes). It made no sense for Will to admit to hallucinations and then lie about another symptom. So, Hannibal makes no comment about Will's hastiness in assuring him that he hadn't actually lost time. He stretches out on his bed, eyes still closed, and listens to Will babble on about feeling detached. Hannibal starts to gradually feel more awake, sleep's haze lifting. He can hear the weariness and while it's pleasant to hear the distress, Hannibal finds that he wants to help Will Graham sooner rather than later -- he could antagonize him, but he chooses not to. Not now.

"You needn't dwell on the time anymore, Will. I've already agreed to talk with you," Hannibal reprimands softly when Will finally winds down and stops. "Do you need to be my Good Boy? Would that help you?"

* * *

Will's already opened his mouth to protest that it's _really_ late to have called anyone, but there's a mild edge to Hannibal's tone that makes him trail off. Though he still feels like an ass for it, Will reluctantly settles. He swallows and shifts on his bed, still a little restless and he doesn't even know why. But before he can fall into an awkward silence that he doesn't know what to do with, Hannibal continues and Will immediately goes silent.

The words send a dual flush of heat and mortification through him, but before he can even think about arguing, Will is caught in one simple realization: the suggestion makes him feel _better_. It's only mild, only a slight lessening of stress, but it leaves Will going tellingly silent as the mortification doubles and mixes with irritation. Is _this_ why he'd called? Some subconscious urge to submit? What's _wrong_ with him-- But no, what had Hannibal said the other night? (' _...I won't tolerate you feeling shame or self-loathing...'_ ) Will fights the urge to scoff. Hannibal won't be able to tolerate him for long in that case, but he can't deny that the reminder does help. And the words - _Good Boy_ \- send a small thrill of more than just heat through him. Will drags his hand down to rub at his face, and he doesn't even realize he's been quiet for quite some time.

"...Maybe," he finally says, almost a whisper. "... yeah, it might help. I... I didn't mean to call for this, but... yeah. _Good Boy_."

* * *

While there are obvious limitations given the current situation, Hannibal's confident that he can attempt to offer Will what he needs. He can quiet Will's mind, exert enough instruction that, if Will allows himself to submit, he should find a measure of peace in obeying. Whether or not Will _lets_ himself is another question. Hannibal only has voice and only threats if Will chooses to not comply. He cannot force Will to do anything. The success of this endeavor hinges on Will being honest and willing -- or at least desperate enough. Hannibal hopes it's the former.

His question is met with a predictable silence from Will. Hannibal is not surprised by this as he imagines that this - their arrangement - will be met with resistance and a struggle on Will's part for quite some time. Will has a lot to work through - his judgments, his guilt and shame for needing and indulging in such activities. Hannibal breathes evenly, his other hand coming to rest on his abdomen as he waits for Will to work through his protests. When Will finally answers, his voice is small, like a hesitant child and Hannibal smiles. _His_ boy is a needy thing.

"It's quite fine if you were to call for this, Will," Hannibal responds calmly. "Anytime, might I add. If you feel like you're floundering and hearing my voice would help, please don't hesitate." He pauses a moment and exhales as he smooths the blankets over his stomach. "Anyway..." Hannibal's voice is lower as he adopts a more commanding tone. "I'm going to trust that you will not lie in this. If I ask you to do something, I expect you to obey unless your safeword is employed. Do you understand, Will?"

* * *

While Will doesn't expect mockery or smug satisfaction from Hannibal, that his immediate response is simply a calm reassurance goes a long way to calming Will back down. He swallows, fidgeting a little against his bed, but some of the pressure in his lungs feels like it has eased. It's easier to breathe and Will feels some of the tension in his shoulders abate. He hadn't even been aware of _being_ tense to begin with but that he apparently had been is no surprise. He's always tense. But Hannibal's soft reassurance - that not only is it okay to call for this but that it's okay to call for this _anytime_ \- quiets more of Will's guilt over calling so late.

This is definitely one thing Will finds calming about Hannibal: he seems genuine in his desire to help, and Will doesn't sense any irritation or dishonesty from Hannibal over the phone. So when Hannibal exhales, Will does the same, and he keeps his eyes closed, focusing all his attention on the micro-sounds Hannibal makes over the phone: The rustle of his sheets, the slight friction against the phone as he shifts, and the sound of his breathing. Will tries to slow his breathing to match and while his pulse does pick up at the more commanding voice, it's not out of fear. He's nervous; this feels almost taboo, but he's not stopping.

"Yes. I understand."

* * *

If he was a better man, Hannibal would make certain Will knew that he could call whenever and that such interactions didn't need to involve _this_ (their arrangement). He purposefully doesn't make the distinction, and perhaps Will believes Hannibal is extending the invitation for _any_ type of phone conversation. He's not. Hannibal can see himself hanging up on an inconvenient call from Will if Will was prattling on about nonsense. Hannibal's time is precious, he doesn't necessarily want to listen to Will natter on about Alana or how dismal the medication is. (At least this is what he tells himself. A month ago it likely would be true, but now? Could he really strand Will?)

"Thank you," Hannibal says simply. "I would like you to close your eyes and focus on my voice. My eyes are closed as well and I'm thinking about you Will. You are the only thing on my mind and I would like you to think about me too. Picture me in your room, sitting in a chair nearby. My legs are crossed, my hands folded in my lap as they often are during our conversations. I'm watching you lie there." Hannibal pauses and lets Will take the time to imagine him. He wets his lips before continuing. "Are you sweaty, Will? Are you sleeping naked because of the bruising?"

* * *

Will breathes slowly and while he does feel a little anxious over what he's agreed to, the anxiety settles into awareness. Though it's hard to wrestle himself into a different mindset, he does his best. He breathes. He closes his eyes tighter when prompted, and he does as Hannibal says and focuses on his voice. It's almost embarrassing how quickly the knowledge that he has Hannibal's full attention helps him feel a little less adrift, but it means that he feels more comfortable in following the directions given. He tries to wipe everything else out of his mind. Everything but Hannibal. As Hannibal speaks, Will constructs the image of him, sitting in the armchair (with a sheet over it because of the dog hair), rapt, intent, with his presence bleeding out into the room. Will squirms; it's not real, but he still can't shake the feeling that Hannibal _is_ watching him.

Then Hannibal talks again and something twists in his stomach. The information is personal, but he'd already promised to be honest. Will shifts, draping his arm back over his eyes because it feels safer, an extra layer of protection.

"I... yeah, I'm sweaty. But I'm not sleeping naked. I had to take the dogs out. Should..." He wets his lips. "Do you want me to be sleeping naked?" He doubts he'd complain over it; his ass _is_ still sore, and it's definitely not comfortable, especially with all his moving around on the bed.

* * *

While there are actually approved techniques to help Will, Hannibal has opted to play. He's never claimed to be an overly good man. He could have done a guided meditation with Will. He could have attempted various grounding exercises. But Hannibal wants this instead; he wants Will thinking about him and he wants Will being exposed to submission again. It's exposure therapy, of sorts. Will needs exposure to normalize his feelings and Hannibal seeks to give him yet another experience.

Hannibal, too, pictures himself in Will's room, sitting and observing him with penetrating interest. In his mind Will is sweaty, damp hair bringing out more curls and still pale from sickness. Will confirms that he's perspiring and Hannibal makes a sound of confirmation that he's heard. He answers Will's question decisively, no deliberation needed.

"Yes, Will. I would like you naked for this. Put me on speaker and while removing your clothing I want you to describe exactly what you are doing." Hannibal delivers the instructions concisely, expecting that this is something Will will comply with. While it holds some embarrassment, Will has already been completely naked in his actual presence. "Can you do that for me, Will? Please." He has no qualms in using manners while technically giving orders.

* * *

Will has no difficulty with the idea of removing his clothes. The idea of removing his clothes and _narrating_ is different, but it's not enough to make him safeword out of it. While it does make embarrassment prickle at the back of his neck, it doesn't take him long to sigh.

"Yeah, I can do that," he says, and he sounds more sure than he feels. But he's making a point to do as he's told, and the instruction - knowing Hannibal _expects_ something of him - does help. It's settling to know he can at least meet someone's expectations.

He shifts his arm down from over his eyes and glances at the phone, hitting the button for the speakerphone. He doesn't look in the direction of the armchair; Hannibal's there, and if he looks, the illusion will shatter. Will doesn't know if he'd allow himself to do this if Hannibal really _was_ here but that's not his problem now. His problem is the way he has to narrate this.

"You're on speaker now. I'm sitting up to take my shirt off, but it's not comfortable." Will grunts a little as he sits up, wincing at the pressure against his ass. Hannibal had asked for him to describe _exactly_ what he's doing, so while it does feel awkward, he tries his best. _Good boy_ , after all. "I'm grimacing because it hurts, but you know that. I'm taking my shirt off now. It's sticking a little, but--" Will shifts and pulls it off over his head "--there. It's off, and I'm laying back down so I can take off my boxers."

His breathing is a little deeper now because this _does_ hurt. Hannibal had done a number on him a few days ago and the bruises are deep and angry and wide, covering his whole ass and an inch or two down his thighs. Still, Will lifts his hips and works both hands down.

"M'lifting my hips and pulling them down. And it's... it hurts. But it's not bad. They're around my knees, and I'm laying back so I can kick them off." He does as he says, and he takes a little satisfaction in watching them fall from the bed. "There. They're off."

* * *

Hannibal has given his instructions and it's now up to Will whether or not he wishes to comply with them. Will could endeavor to partially participate; he could undress but not describe the motions, for Hannibal knows it's the narration that's truly the more embarrassing aspect of what he's requested. Will could also lie and pretend to obey, to make the necessary sounds but not actually remove his clothing. Hannibal doesn't think Will _would_ , but it's a possibility. Hannibal believes the submission will help, but he can only offer.

Will says that he can do it, sounding somewhat composed even; Hannibal wonders if it's false bravado. Either way, Hannibal feels satisfied at the answer and waits for the show of sorts to begin. He has in the past had certain sexual conversations while on the phone. However, they've never been something he's especially _enjoyed_. Hannibal is creative enough to picture various scenes and spin fantasies for the lover on the other line, but he's never been exactly engaged. Until now. (Will's always managed to be captivating.)

He listens to Will narrate each detail while he hears the corresponding movement and sound accompanying them. Hannibal visualizes Will sitting up on his feeble excuse for a bed, the shirt sticking to him from sweat, but eventually being peeled off. Will's discomfort is heard both in tone and increased breathing. Hannibal imagines the care Will is utilizing in each action he takes. He can easily see Will's hips rising for the last piece of clothing to be slipped down and then kicked off. Hannibal feels a small stirring of arousal, but he doesn't focus on it. When Will completes the task Hannibal lets warmth be present in his voice.

"Good, Will. Thank you for doing exactly as I asked." He pauses a moment to let the praise hit its mark. "Close your eyes. Let yourself be watched... Feel the chaffing against your skin from the bedsheet. Move your hips to feel it more."

* * *

Will doesn't realize how much he needs to hear the praise until Hannibal is carefully gifting it to him. There's warmth in Hannibal's voice that mixes with the warmth of embarrassment under Will's skin, but he can't deny that it helps. It sends a small shiver through him and twists something in his chest, making his pulse pick up and his breathing hitch before he gets it back under control. There's a difference between _Hannibal's_ praise and the gruff, dismissive way Jack tells him, 'good work'. Jack's praise is logical and firm, righteous. He's praising the situation more than anything, but Hannibal's praise is warm and entirely focused on _him_ and Will feels... he feels good.

Considering he's felt like shit for the past few days, this realization hits him a little harder than he'd expected. But it means that when Hannibal continues, even though the thought of being watched is unsettling (even if Hannibal isn't really there) he actually wants to comply. Swallowing, Will begins to nod before remembering that Hannibal can't actually see him. He closes his eyes and breathes slowly. The odd thing is that even though he knows Hannibal isn't really here, with his eyes closed he can picture it. The perils of imagination. He can almost feel the heavy gaze and an awkward mix of anxiety and excitement prickles over his skin.

He doesn't really _want_ to squirm against the sheets; Will knows it's going to be uncomfortable. He does it anyway, shifting his hips with a rougher, "okay," murmured under his breath. The drag of the sheets over his ass makes him hyper-aware of how rough they feel and he grimaces, his breath stop-starting a little and catching sharp in the back of his throat. It's only when the shifting of his muscles sends an angry throb of pain through him - enough to gasp - that Will wonders if he's supposed to be narrating this too. "Never realized how uncomfortable these fucking sheets were," he grunts, opting for a safer middle ground.

"It hurts. But it's not bad." It's kind of grounding, actually. Then a thought sneaks up on Will. He considers it, then just decides to ask.

"Would you really want to watch something like this?"

* * *

Praise is important to Will. Hannibal's positive regard and warmth matter both in their friendship and arrangement, so Hannibal will ensure such things are not a rare occurrence. While lovely, Will's distress is not the only captivating feature about Will. Hannibal has plans for Will. They're changeable plans, yes, but Hannibal would see Will built up rather than torn down. He's helped put out the fire in Will's brain, now it's time to strengthen and fortify, to enable Will to face his darkness and not crumble in its midst. Hannibal would rather see Will's potential be realized than go with his other options, but most of this is up to Will to manage. He can influence, but Will must decide if he wishes to embrace the shadows.

He hears the slight shift and then the mumbled affirmation that Will is complying. Hannibal focuses first on listening and then picturing Will's discomfort. There's unsteady breathing, the sounds of friction, a gasp and then Will decides to be forthcoming and _share._ Hannibal hadn't told him to narrate, but Will is choosing to offer up some commentary and Hannibal is pleasantly satisfied by this development. The question he's asked - if he would really want to watch this - isn't entirely surprising. Will is still in disbelief of his own appeal.

Hannibal merely takes an audible breath before answering calmly, "Yes, I would find enjoyment in watching you lie before me, exposed and obeying." He lets a smile come to his lips before continuing. "How does that make you feel, Will? I'm sure you can imagine me there observing you right now. Are you embarrassed, possibly excited by my attention and interest?"

* * *

_Yes_. Yes, Hannibal would want to watch him like this. The thought isn't a surprise because Hannibal had been the one to ask him to picture him there to begin with, but the calm, immediate answer still throws him. Will stills in a mild amount of disbelief and he feels heat creep up his throat to settle hot in his cheeks. Just the way Hannibal had phrased it - _exposed and obeying_ \- twists a small thrill through him. Embarrassment curls hot through him but it's not enough for him to shy away. Instead Will is just left aware of the way his pulse picks up, and in his mind's eye the Hannibal currently watching him stops just watching and starts looking _pleased._ Will swallows. The thought of actually laying like this in front of Hannibal makes him want to curl in on himself, but there's more to it than that.

And then, of course, Hannibal _knows_. Will wants to laugh at how fucking accurate Hannibal's assessment is, but he doesn't. Instead his breathing hitches a little in surprise and Will shifts again, purposefully pressing himself against the sheets because Hannibal hadn't told him to stop. Just hearing Hannibal's prompting questions is enough to send heat through him, and Will is honestly surprised by _how much_ he likes this.

"I'm... yes. It's... the thought is embarrassing," he hedges cautiously, but even he can hear the slight thickness in his tone. "But I...I like it. The thought of you watching me. I don't know how I'd feel if you were really here; probably that this was ridiculous, but--" Will wets his lips "--I think a part of me would still like it. A part of me _does_. Being the focus of your attention feels good."

* * *

Hannibal doesn't lie to Will so he answers truthfully. He confirms that yes, he would want to watch such a scene if given the chance. While he may be currently clothed and still guarding his secrets fiercely, Hannibal wants to be truthful with Will, to expose himself little by little and to lift up the human veil as it were. This is both rare and peculiar for him. Hannibal likes his 'person suit', the 'human shield' which keeps lesser creatures away from him. He hadn't been lying to Bedelia when he said he had the _opportunities_ for friends. Will is one of those opportunities, but possibilities don't necessarily become realities. Will may never move past his own nightmares and afflictions. True friends are equals and they are nowhere near that. Not yet.

But over the line Hannibal can make out the sounds of Will rubbing his sore and bruised skin against the sheets still and he feels a curl of satisfaction. Technically Hannibal hadn't told Will to _stop_ the action... Will is being a very good boy indeed. Will _continues_ to be a good boy with his answer because it's rife with conflicted honesty. Both this current phone conversation _and_ the thought of Hannibal actually watching is embarrassing, but Will admits that being the focus of his attention feels good. Hannibal is pleased, so he indulges himself.

When he opens his mouth he purposefully murmurs in a low tone, "Voglio tu senta piacere, Will. Puoi anche sentirti in imbarazzo. Permetti a te stesso di accettare quello che provi. Sii certo di essere l'unico nella mia mente e di meritare tutta la mia attenzione."

Perhaps the use of Italian will irritate as Will can't comprehend the words, but Hannibal doesn't believe that's what will transpire.

* * *

It's honesty that Will hadn't expected to give, but he hasn't forgotten his promise to Hannibal. He's expecting Will to be honest; he'd asked him not to lie, and Will doesn't intend to despite his embarrassment. He can handle a few awkward admissions. He now knows Hannibal can and _will_ punish him if he fucks up, and while it's reassuring to know that there are relatively fair consequences to mistakes, Will doesn't want to disappoint Hannibal right now. He doesn't know what this makes him - what this makes _them_ \- but maybe it doesn't matter. It's something to concern himself with later, when thoughts of Hannibal's gaze are not so vivid in Will's mind. If he focuses, he can almost smell Hannibal's cologne in the room and it sends a lower thrill through him. Is he supposed to be finding this arousing?

Embarrassment crawls through him again but this time Will just accepts it. His eyes are closed and he's breathing as steadily as he can as he presses back against the sheets, still following Hannibal's suggestion.

So when Hannibal's voice suddenly cuts through Will's focus, Will's hips still. The ache in his ass is steady but less without movement. He's quiet, not wanting to miss an instruction given. At first Will isn't sure what he's hearing. Then he recognizes the cadence to some of the not-English Hannibal is saying. Suddenly it's like they're back in the car, with Hannibal gently reciting Italian to him as he'd drifted. It's immediately soothing, at least part way. Yet there's something darker and almost lascivious in Hannibal's voice that has Will's pulse skipping up into a much higher gear. He's quiet, his breathing losing its steadiness, and by the time Hannibal trails off, Will can't deny the mild stirring of arousal. For all he knows, Hannibal had just read him the back of an imported shampoo bottle, but the way his voice had sounded over the words had been like a physical touch. Will shifts against the sheets. He _really_ hopes that hadn't been a shampoo bottle.

"What... what did you just say?" He asks, sounding guiltily breathless.

* * *

While he is fluent in Italian, Hannibal is more accustomed to reciting _another's_ words in Italian versus his own, so he speaks a little slower (not that Will is going to necessarily know). The last time he'd slipped into Italian Will was half asleep in the passenger's seat and a recording of Vivaldi was serenading them on the drive back to Hannibal's home. Will had seemed amiable toward the use of the language. Simply curious, he'd sleepily asked for the translation and Hannibal had naturally recited the specific passage in English. He assumes Will is going to inquire on his words now. He could lie. He could opt to not answer at all, but Will's breathing has turned a little ragged and Hannibal finds that he would rather Will know than not know.

Hannibal's eyes are still closed, his hands folded comfortably on his abdomen. It's almost laughable how much more he prefers talking with Will than Natalie even if it's through a call. Hannibal has never held any fondness for speaking over the phone. It can be a nuisance because of quality having the ability to affect his comprehension; after all, English is not his first language so Hannibal greatly dislikes having any possible misunderstanding due to technical issues. (Thankfully this current call's quality is adequate.) When Will does ask, he sounds out of breath and possibly aroused. Hannibal likes this.

"I said that I wanted you to feel good. Then, that it was also alright that you felt embarrassed. I told you to allow yourself to feel whatever you were feeling." Hannibal pauses for a moment before continuing. "Lastly, to trust that you were the only one on my mind and that you were deserving of all my attention," Hannibal explains with equal warmth and desire.

* * *

Hannibal could lie to him and Will would never know. He can remember vague sounds from Hannibal's words, but he'd been focusing on the tone of voice more. He can't speak Italian, and he can't remember what Hannibal had said, so there's no surreptitious Google Translate in his future. All he can do is ask and hope that Hannibal will relent. But Will knows Hannibal _could_ lie to him. It means he's quiet in the seconds following his question, almost tentative. He's expecting a drawn-out pause for some sort of dramatic effect (Hannibal strikes him as that kind of man) but much to Will's surprise, Hannibal almost immediately answers him. It throws him, Will's mouth closing with a small click of teeth.

He doesn't know what he'd been expecting - teasing, perhaps (maybe something sexual) - but the _actual_ translation makes Will go quiet for a different reason. Hannibal's answer is kind. Will hadn't been expecting _kind_. It's like Hannibal's hand in his hair before it grips, or the way he'd urged Will to bed a few nights ago after the punishment. There's a complicated twist in Will's chest, a restlessness and uncertainty greatly overshadowed by the knowledge that this is what he'd needed to hear. He wonders briefly if Hannibal had planned this, but Will doubts it. There's an honesty in Hannibal's voice. It's warm and slow, carefully enunciated so he can hear it all, and after Hannibal's brief pause he finishes his translation with ' _...you were deserving of all my attention._ '

 _All_ of Hannibal's attention. Will's breath catches just a little. There's a part of him that wants to argue. He doesn't. Instead Will just swallows and closes his eyes tighter. "Thank you," is all that initially comes to mind, and even that seems so underwhelming. "I'm... I don't know what to say," he admits after a second. "I like the idea of being the focus of _all_ of your attention, but I don't know what to do with it. I do feel good though."

* * *

Are his words too much or just enough? Hannibal knows he must be careful when saying anything that could be interpreted as praise or a compliment to Will. While Will may _want_ positive acknowledgement, it's not something with which he is easily comfortable with. But given why and how this particular conversation began (Will stressed and fraying), Hannibal believes Will could use the verbal caress. It would seem that his words hit their mark. Gratitude is given and then uncertainty follows (' _I don't know what to do with it_ '). While the quandary is lovely, a part of Hannibal wonders how he would react if Will were to one day claim that he _knew_ he was worthy of Hannibal's attention. (There's the longing to find an equal again...)

"You don't need to _do_ anything, Will. Just be present. We are both in our respective beds, eyes closed and I'm here with you on this call." He's breaking away from the visualization route, but hopefully this new direction pays off. "Lie still and listen to me closely, now." This is a risk, but he can't resist nudging Will closer to the edge of the dock.

"E voglio che tu senta anche di più. _And I want you to feel ever better._ " Hannibal delivers the line in Italian, and then murmurs it in English. "Puoi toccarti, se lo desideri. _You may touch yourself if you so desire_. Mi piacerebbe sentire ancora i tuoi versi di piacere. _I would like to hear your expressions of pleasure again._ " He stops and wets his lips, curious as to how Will is going to respond.

"The choice is yours, Will."

This hadn't been in Hannibal's mind when he'd assured Will that they could speak. It doesn't _need_ to be sexual, but there is something so lovely about hearing Will, hearing his hitched breathing and reactions; Hannibal wants more of them. He's always been a selfish man and it's no different in this _._ Anyway, Will would likely be able to sleep better afterwards, assuming he achieved orgasm.

* * *

What do other people do with positive attention? Will's not exactly old hat with _positive_ favor. He's used to Jack snapping at him and used to grating on people's nerves when he's forced to socialize. The only real experience Will has is in his classes and the attention there is more indifferent than positive. So knowing that he's got _all_ of Hannibal's attention is as daunting as it is pleasurable. While Will doesn't know what to do with it, he wants it. Maybe it's greedy, but Hannibal doesn't seem to mind. So Will just listens, shifting on the bed to face the phone even if his eyes are closed.

He's not expecting Hannibal to break the visualization. For a moment Will flounders, but reality settles back in comfortably, not in a jarring manner. They're both in their beds, it's late, and Hannibal is giving him his undivided attention. He settles back into what's real and when Hannibal tells him to listen closely, Will immediately goes quiet. Even his breathing slows. He breathes steadily. When Hannibal starts to talk again, the curl of the Italian is just as mesmerizing as it had been before. He's only just starting to feel a restless itch under his skin when Hannibal's voice suddenly changes - to English - and Will draws in a quick breath.

There's something _maddening_ about hearing Hannibal's voice courting another language. Will swallows, heat and anticipation warring within. It's almost artful, really, making him listen to a language he doesn't know, leaving him to infer meaning from the smooth glide of Hannibal's voice and tone alone - only to have the English follow. It has a pointed heat settling low that Will almost feels guilty for, except then Hannibal translates further and Will's breath hitches at the permission.

"How did you--?" He begins, only to cut himself off. He wants to ask if Hannibal had known he was getting hard but he bites it back.

The last time he'd been aroused had been at his house, but Hannibal hadn't really acknowledged it and neither had he. He hadn't been in the mindset to enjoy pleasure then. Against the side of Hannibal's Bentley however... Will swallows. There are a dozen reasons why he shouldn't, but they're all overshadowed by two simple truths: first, he's actually turned on, and second, he _wants_ to. One of his hands slides down and he shivers as he presses his palm against his dick. The last time he'd come, it had been at Hannibal's hand.

"I can... yeah, I can do that. I am. Is that what _you_ want me to do?"

* * *

Granted, it's a little out of the norm for him to be using Italian to "talk dirty" to anyone, let alone Will. Hannibal has always communicated in whatever language his partner spoke. He'd seen no need to complicate matters or to show off. At least not until Will. Now Hannibal finds that he likes using language and his voice to affect Will, to keep him on edge and trying to guess the meaning of his words. He may not be able to touch, but Hannibal is not helpless in his influence over Will. Perhaps it's cheap. Perhaps it's even petty, but Will hasn't sounded exasperated about it nor has he asked him to stop.

Hannibal is no mind reader. He can pick up on breathing patterns, the slight stutters from Will when he knows he's been successful in eliciting an emotional response of some kind. But over the phone it's difficult to gauge arousal. It's a bit of gamble to take this direction with Will. Will had been fairly adamant on being straight -- not that this act or the scene against the Bentley automatically means Will is lying by any means. Too many people considered orientation to be a black and white issue, slapping a label on themselves and staunchly believing in that rigidity. For some, the boundaries are firm and for others there can be fluidity and a spectrum. Hannibal believes that Will is mainly heterosexual, or at least has been for most his life, but that didn't mean it had to _stay_ that way.

_'Is that what **you** want me to do?'_

There's a small part of him that’s aggravated at Will's question. Hannibal wouldn't have asked if he _wasn't_ interested, but then he remembers he'd based the decision of masturbating on _Will's_ desire to; he'd said the choice was Will's. Perhaps Will is merely looking for his approval then. It's a very nice thought. "Per favore," Hannibal murmurs after a moment. "I would like for you to touch yourself, Will. I would like you to not hold anything back. Let me hear you. Tell me what you're doing."

* * *

_Please_. Will's Italian is nonexistent but certain words always infiltrate the English language. He doesn't speak a number of languages, but he knows the words for a few things. He knows 'yes' and 'no' and 'please' and 'thank you' in a few different languages, and thankfully Italian seems to be one of them. Hannibal's tone also helps and Will wets his lips at the permission. He's quiet for a moment as he rubs the heel of his hand over his cock, and even Will is surprised at how quickly he hardens the rest of the way. It'd be embarrassing under different circumstances, but at least Hannibal can't see him. He'll be able to hear him; it'll be exposing and thrilling, but that's not necessarily a bad thing.

Then Hannibal goes on and Will's breath hitches in definite embarrassment. "You-- you want me to _tell_ you." Immediately it feels like too much. How the fuck is he supposed to let Hannibal know? He swallows. If Hannibal were here Will could just act and not have to think. But despite the embarrassment he feels, there's also a small thrill deep inside. It's small and embarrassed but... he's not using his safe word. So he's doing it. With new dedication in mind, Will draws a deep breath and then lets it out, then nods even though Hannibal can't see him. "Okay. I can... I can do that. Just lemme get the lube." Will hesitates when he realizes he'd said that out loud, then reaches over to his bedside table. It takes him only a second to get the small bottle. After pouring some onto his hand, Will caps the top and sets it aside, reaching down to wrap his hand around himself. He shivers. "S'cold, but... fuck, I can't believe I'm doing this."

Wetting his lips, Will closes his eyes tight again and breathes slowly, his head falling back against his pillow. He moves his hand slowly, spreading the lube out. Despite the twist of embarrassment, he lets out a low groan. Hannibal had asked him to not hold anything back, so he doesn't plan on it. "I'm... I'm touching myself. Doing what you said. Slow. This is so fucking embarrassing, but it... feels good, too."

* * *

Hannibal nudges Will. He pushes him toward the edge, curious if each step forward may be his last and he'll have pushed too far or moved too fast. Will it be tonight that he crosses the line? Will the possibilities be dashed here and now? One wrong command could tear down what they've built. Trust could be fleeting and delicate... But, no. After a moment of silence following Will's echoed statement of the request for this particular activity to _also_ be narrated, Will merely takes a deep breath then _agrees_. No missteps. Not yet, at least. (Even Hannibal is aware that he's rushing a little... _Why_? Normally he's patient. The fire has been put out...)

He listens intently as Will does what he'd explained he would do. Hannibal hears Will shift to reach and then retrieve the lubricant. The telltale sound of the cap popping open follows and then a moment later the cap is back on and the item is discarded. As Will comments about the lube, Hannibal imagines Will with a slicked up hand and squirming against the coolness. It's a nice thought to have. The sound of measured breathing is heard next as well as Will settling back on the pillow. Hannibal hums to assure Will that he's still very much present and attending.

Hannibal feels a twinge of arousal at the pleasured sound Will makes shortly after. "Good, Will. Let me continue to hear you," Hannibal praises and tries to sound unaffected. "I imagine the embarrassment adds to the thrill, but masturbation is hardly an activity to feel shame over... Although I assume that it's _my_ involvement in this that distresses you… But you continue to surprise me. I wonder if you would do this in my office, sitting across from me. What do you think about that?"

* * *

Will's never questioned being straight before. Honestly, he's not sure he can even claim that he's questioning it now. When he thinks about women, there's still interest. Thinking about men only gives him a vague sense of ambivalence. Thinking about _Hannibal_ is much more complicated and he doesn't know what to do with it. Will bites his lower lip as he strokes his hand over his cock much slower than usual. It's not a speed he can usually come from; jerking off is something he does when he's able, and when he's not feeling shamed (from waking up hard from after a violent or twisted dream). He's usually just desperate to get off. The knowledge that Hannibal is listening makes him slow down though. Hannibal is a massive question mark in Will's mind. He's a man. Will isn't exactly aching with sexual attraction but there's no denying that this is hot. The way Hannibal had touched him against the side of the highway had been hot, and though Will doesn't let the thought take root, he remembers blue latex and rolled-up sleeves and blood.

His cock jerks in his hand and Will shudders out a moan he immediately begins to bite back before remembering that it's not what Hannibal wants. Conflicting desires arise, but Will just shoves the rest of his thoughts away. He doesn't know what he is, and this is hotter than it should be. It's a problem for later. His cock in his fist is a problem for _now_. Will shivers and his focus races immediately to Hannibal's voice. Hannibal doesn't sound affected (and Will isn't sure why that rankles) but the instruction helps. Will closes his eyes tight and lets the praise wash warmly over him as his hand moves. He feels a flush work its way to his cheeks when Hannibal says 'masturbation' but he doesn't stop. When Hannibal continues, detailing a different possibility in his _office_ , however, Will's gasp is bitten and sharp as the image hits him.

"Christ, Hannibal," Will hisses, embarrassed, but even he can hear the pleasure in his voice. He jerks his hips up and winces at the pain in his ass, but fuck it, he doesn't care. _Would_ he do it if Hannibal asked? Anticipation rises sharply and Will wets his lips. "Fuck, I shouldn't find that hot, but I do. I'd... if you told me to, I'd do it, I think. I'm not sure." Will's teeth glance off his lip and he tightens his hold, stroking a little quicker. "And-- fuck, sorry, right. I'm, uh... I like the idea. I'm stroking myself faster, rubbing my fingers under the head because it feels really good. I tried fucking my fist, but it hurts. My ass, I mean."

* * *

Hannibal has an interest in hearing both pleasure and pain. He most definitely has a vested interest in _causing_ such states as well. While outwardly he lives as a polite and well respected man, running his own psychiatry practice, attending high society events and throwing the occasional dinner party, Hannibal seeks to bear witness to the emotional extremes of others, to have his words breed new ways of thinking, to have his questions lead to igniting action. Humans are far more interesting while in pain or experiencing the throes of pleasure.

Whereas he was more tempestuous in his youth, Hannibal's existence now is a controlled one. There's a meticulous orderliness to his current life that gives him comfort. Each thing is in its rightful place. His office and home are kept in pristine condition. There are few surprises, always superb food, delicious wines and company when he wishes it. Neat, tidy. _Safe..._ But perhaps it's become a little stagnant, banality having slipped in because Hannibal finds himself interested in seeing if Will would leave his clothes on the floor once he stripped out of them or if he would walk around in a towel after a shower. Normally, he would look down on such states but they somehow hold a sliver of appeal. Will's mess being allowed to show up in _his_ life... the disorder and brusqueness, the little things like Will not lining up his shoes by the door or Will having no clue about wine pairing...

Hannibal would like to see his sheets soaked in Will's sweat. Hannibal would like to watch Will use his gift at one of _his_ scenes. (Perhaps Hannibal will leave him a gift...)

He hears a sharp, telling gasp in response to his question. He knows Will is aroused by the idea of performing in his office and in front of him. Hannibal feels _himself_ actually grow affected as Will stumbles through his admission. Their appointment is in a few days time. Would Will still be amenable to the idea or does desperation cloud his judgment?

"I would consider myself privileged to observe such a thing," Hannibal replies and he's being honest. "I think you can handle the pain, can you not? Would you try for me, Will? Thrust into your fist."

* * *

Privileged. Hannibal would feel privileged to see him jerk himself off in Hannibal's office. Embarrassment twists sharply through his chest and the flush to his cheeks is not entirely pleasure but there's enough of it there to make a difference. Will imagines it---imagines Hannibal's cool, almost clinical expression as he undoes his slacks and pulls out his cock. He doesn't think Hannibal has ever _seen_ him before. Not really. He'd felt him along the side of the road. And while he'd been hard during the punishment, Will doesn't doubt that Hannibal had been too polite to look. Will shifts, squirming against the sheets. Nerves war with pleasure and his teeth catch on his lower lip. Would Hannibal be clinical the whole time? Would there be _any_ sign of heat?

The thought sends unintended pleasure lancing through him and Will groans in the back of his throat, his hand tightening at the base of his cock without thinking. It feels just good enough to take the edge off, but he doesn't realize how much he's waiting for instruction until suddenly Hannibal is adding more into _this_ moment. He wants Will to fuck - no, gotta be _proper_ with that - _thrust_ into his fist. Will's breathing is rougher, and while he wouldn't do it without Hannibal listening, there's this maddening urge inside to just do what Hannibal tells him to. Hannibal thinks he can handle it, wants him to try. Will swallows. "I... yeah. Yeah, I can try. Fuck, Hannibal."

Will's head tilts back against his pillow and he moves his hand higher up, wrapping it around his cock properly. It _does_ hurt when he rolls his hips, his muscles pressing against bruises from the inside only to have the bruises grind back against the sheets. But now that Hannibal _wants_ him to, even the pain takes on a different significance. It strikes him as his hips jerk up that Hannibal is a _sadist_. Of course he wants to hear. Will shudders and - after a moment of uncertainty - he finally allows the strain to shine through in his groans. Pain and pleasure war as he tightens his fist and jerks his hips up, fucking up into his fist despite the pain. It hurts but it also feels good and Will doesn't even realize how close he's already getting.

"It's... it's not comfortable, but it's fine. Fuck," he gasps, his breathing already ragged. "I'm doing what you said. Fucking my fist. Feels really good. Hurts too, but s'fine. F-fuck... would you want to see this? In your office?"

* * *

It's a heady thing to have another's trust, to give suggestions or in this case, orders, and have them be followed through. Hannibal rather enjoys having agency, in affecting those he interacts with and, of course, a handful of selected patients he's chosen. Altering courses - pulling the puppet strings - and observing the results is Hannibal's own drug of choice. It keeps him sharp and engaged in humanity, in those around him.

Under normal circumstances Hannibal knows Will would be scandalized to actually be masturbating over the phone, but trust has paved this particular road and desperation has directed Will to it. Will agrees that, despite the pain, he will try to thrust into his fist and it's more obliging, more of Will showing a delicious willingness to submit to him. (Is Hannibal being a little lenient, phrasing orders in the form of questions to offer Will the appearance of a choice? Yes, but Hannibal can bend a little for _his_ Will, he can soften the blow of submission when needed to help Will move further into the palm of his hand. He's never needed an iron fist. He's never cared for what was the conventional way of being dominant.)

Hannibal hears the sudden sounds of Will obeying, of putting more force into a thrust, and then he's rewarded with Will's groan in response to both the pleasure and pain. It is a reward that affects him more than he may like.

When Will asks if he would want to see this in his office, Hannibal pauses a moment, thinking. Considering. He forms the words in his mind before murmuring lowly, "Sì, voglio vederti disperato, seduto di fronte a me, che ti agiti mentre ti guardo." Hannibal wets his lips as a hand slips between the sheets and adjusts his own erection, careful to not allow any sound of pleasure to escape his own mouth. "I said that, yes, I would want to see you desperate, sitting across from me, while fidgeting under my gaze."

A hum and then Hannibal pushes again (always too curious for his own good) and decides to introduce a more taboo situation. "I wonder... What if, one time I were not to permit you to use the washroom to relieve your bladder and you were made to sit or be tied to the chair across from me. I believe you would be lovely in such a desperate state. What do you think, Will?”

* * *

He can imagine it too well; it's one of the perils of imagination. He can see the way Hannibal would be seated, dressed in one of his crisp suits, one leg crossed over the other, hands folded politely on his lap, and his eyes fixated, expression controlled. Even in his imagination, the control is maddening; Will wants to shatter it, to force something else out of Hannibal, which is reckless enough. He's never been demanding in bed before. He's been reckless here and there, and he's been desperate (people don't want to sleep with someone as broken as he is) but ultimately his own desires have been second to his partner's. It isn't about what he wants. It's about the hope that they'll want to do it again. He generally takes pleasure from satisfying others, but there's something about imagining Hannibal so composed - something about the fact that even _now_ he's so composed - that makes Will want to shatter it.

Before the idea can form, before he can focus beyond the pleasure and pain of the way he's fucking up into the tight, slick tunnel of his fist, Hannibal's voice sounds again. It's different this time, lower, enticing, and Will's sound is half-whine as he bites his lower lip. He has no clue what Hannibal had even _said_ but the words sound good. He shakes, and when the translation comes, a pleasure blooms in his chest. It's pleased and embarrassed in equal measure. The thought of being made to fidget shouldn't be appealing. It is. His breathing is already beginning to decline, his body caught in the rush of pleasure so close.

Then Hannibal goes on, and Will almost misses just _what_ Hannibal is saying. It goes beyond words for about ten seconds, and then the implication actually registers. Will's gasp is sharp, the sound immediately humiliated, but much to his own amazement (and judgement) his cock only drools wetly over his fist at the thought and his next thrust is off-center and quick.

" _Fuck_ , Hannibal, what the _fuck_ ," Will chokes out, his voice shaking and edged with uncertainty. It's also edged with pleasure. "What... what could you _possibly_ get out of that?" He asks the question, but he feels like he already knows the answer. It isn't difficult to put two and two together. Hannibal wants his desperation, and Will - despite his own confusion - seems to want to give it to him. He's harder than he can remember being in recent memory.

* * *

Hannibal may be vocally leading Will from one surprising situation to the next, but Will has remained with him. Will had begun the phone call flustered and unaware of the time, quick to suggest hanging up. Hannibal had soothed out that wrinkle and through assurance, Will had stayed on the call. When posed with being Hannibal's "good boy" Will had decided that it might be beneficial. Will had stripped naked, closed his eyes and imagined Hannibal watching him. Will had rubbed his bruised and battered skin against the sheets and gasped in pain. Will had responded favorably to the use of Italian, had agreed to touch himself and even asked if it was what Hannibal _also_ wanted. Will had been vocal, narrating his actions and answering without much hesitation. And Hannibal is pleased by it all.

Hannibal is also aroused, his own cock full and hard, soft sleep pants tenting, yet he pays no mind to it. He's never been ruled by these kinds of primal desires. Right now exploring Will's obvious pleasure and unease from embarrassment is more pressing. Hannibal merely folds back the sheets to relieve some of the heat trapped beneath. He's quiet as he does so, breaching the much more socially scandalous topic of desperation/wetting or bathroom control.

Hannibal has no interest in bodily waste products. He is a clean man by nature who prefers those he interacts with and his environment to be of a similar fashion. However, when it comes to sex and play, a certain allowance of mess can be made. Elimination and genitals themselves have always held a degree of shame and there's a great deal of appeal in denying such a vital function to Will. (Will who sounds breathless, Will who is "fucking his fist" even though it hurts. Will who can admit he wants to be watched by Hannibal and _in_ Hannibal's office...)

Will tries to sound properly scandalized at the proposed scenario, but Hannibal knows there's more to Will's response than merely shock and confusion. Neither the idea nor Hannibal himself are exactly chastised. Hannibal smiles to himself. His good boy is a kinky one, after all.

“To have you at my mercy? Uncomfortable, desperate, embarrassed and possibly fearing humiliation... Oh, Will, I would tie you to the ladder leading up to the mezzanine. Bind your wrists above your head and tie your ankles. Fully clothed, squirming with the urgent need to relieve yourself. I would watch you, Will.. Observe you. I would touch you. I would do whatever necessary to have you fighting between arousal and discomfort."

* * *

There is no part of Will that actually _wants_ to follow through with the full ride of what Hannibal is suggesting. The thought is unsettling, a low twist in his stomach that brings a grimace to his lips. But much like his supposed exhibitionism kink, it isn't that he _wants_ to be caught (or to piss himself, thanks) but the _threat_ is another matter entirely. The thrill over being caught and the humiliation of being watched is different, and while he wants to twist away and ask Hannibal to change the subject, he can't deny that the thought holds merit. He's breathless, despite his humiliation, and his cock is aching and throbbing in his hand, his hips rolling up as he fucks into his fist. It doesn't escape his notice that he's not _stopped_ touching himself despite his embarrassment. Fuck, what's wrong with him?

His question - what Hannibal could get out of this - is answered exactly as Will had expected. Hannibal wants him desperate, wants him uncomfortable (which in retrospect is worrying for a psychiatrist). Instead of sounding cruel, it's so damn easy for Will to assume Hannibal's point of view. It's part of the empathy. He can picture it, can picture what the sight of him desperate would bring. He can picture the satisfaction, the awe, the hunger. Maybe Hannibal's suggestion isn't so out of left field.

But Hannibal doesn't stop at the _why_. He continues, and Will is left red in the face and breathing quickly as Hannibal goes on to detail a different scenario. It's sudden; it's Hannibal calmly detailing a situation, but Will's hard and already desperate, and it _sounds_ as close to dirty talk as he can imagine Hannibal doing. Somehow Hannibal's fond calmness is even more effective than if he'd been intentionally trying to turn Will on. His hips stutter, his grip tightening, and the sound he lets out is cracked and desperate.

" _Fuck_ ," he manages, but the word can't possibly summarize just how much the mental image of being restrained in Hannibal's office gets to him. How much the thought of Hannibal's hand on his body makes him feel that much closer.

The ladder would be uncomfortable, and being tied would be exposing. He'd have Hannibal's focus there, though. He'd have Hannibal pushing and watching and touching him. Will's teeth mash at his lower lip until it's red and he doesn't realize that he's as close as he is until Hannibal trails off, leaving the words 'arousal and discomfort' lingering between them. He can feel the tightening inside, can feel the way the muscles in his stomach begin to clench, and Will groans roughly, breathlessly.

"Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , I'd-- yeah, that. Watch me, t-touch me. Fuck, I'm close."

* * *

Will has cursed many times throughout this exercise. In the past, Hannibal would have grown exasperated from the crude repetition. And while he can be forgiving of some cussing during times of stress, Will's use is bordering on excessive. (In comparison, Natalie had only cursed a few times during all of their sexual dealings.) But Hannibal finds that he doesn't mind the roughness coming from Will. Maybe it would be different if they were in-person, but over the phone the coarseness is oddly appealing.

Will Graham is oddly appealing. There's the empathy of course, as it allows Will to understand _his_ point of view (as well as killers) and it's tempting to think on pushing Will to share his thoughts about the Chesapeake Ripper for example. Will Graham doesn't discount the more worthwhile murders, he's able to see the aesthetic value of tableaus which many cannot. There's also the way in which he struggles with persevering despite the heavy burden put on by Jack and himself even. Hannibal can't forget the conflict between Will's desires and the dreaded concept of what he believes to be normal. Will had also shot the Hobbs man ten times and later admitted that he _liked it_. (Hannibal wants Will to reclaim and revel in that power, to play God with him, perhaps.)

It's not practical or smart to engage in such a lewd activity in his office. Under normal circumstances Hannibal wouldn't even entertain such ideas of taking part in any more involved play while at his place of work... But after his last fantasy he supposes it's too late to truly care about propriety. With Will likely imagining it, with the rushed breathing and the obscene slick sounds of Will thrusting into his fist, it's far too easy to picture Will restrained in such a way. Wrists above his head and bound, ankles also restrained, fully clothed and Hannibal nearby watching Will squirm from his attention and from the desperate need to relieve himself.

When Will gives the slight warning, Hannibal's own breathing stutters a moment. "Yes, Will. I'll watch you. I'll touch you... Now, come for me, let me hear how good it feels.

* * *

Is it his imagination, or does Hannibal's breathing stutter? It's probably his imagination. While Hannibal has been an active participant in this exercise, Will hasn't heard him breathless, hasn't heard his voice crack, hasn't heard any indication that he's even hard. He hadn't been hard on the side of the road despite the intensity of the moment, with Will's gasped breaths muffled behind bitten lips and Hannibal's hand pressed against him. He hadn't been hard in Will's kitchen, palm striking and voice low. And while the memory of Hannibal forcing him to bed later is still hazy in his mind, Will is fairly certain that Hannibal hadn't been hard then either. So if he's not hard now, it should hardly come as a surprise. But the thought leaves Will feeling somewhat irritated. It makes no sense; he's never _wanted_ another man to be hard before, he's still attracted to women and not other men. He isn't even sure he's attracted to Hannibal. But the thought of being alone in this is almost enough to bring him back from the edge.

Then that mild hitch to Hannibal's breathing registers, and fuck it, even if it's only in Will's head, the sound immediately sends a low, wrenching heat through him that escapes as a soft whine. He's going to blame his empathy, or empathic pleasure, feeling hotter at the idea of someone else being aroused. More so than even the thought of being tied up to Hannibal's ladder and teased into desperation (though that thought is thrilling even if it shouldn't be) the thought of Hannibal even breathless let alone hard is enough to send pleasure curling through him.

Hannibal's promise - that he'll watch him and touch him - has his head falling back against the pillow, and hearing Hannibal tell him to come _for him_ is all it takes. Will feels almost dizzy with his orgasm as his back bows and his hips snap up against his hand. It only takes three more thrusts before pleasure slams into him, and any desire to stay quiet has long been set aside. Will cries out desperately, his voice almost a sob of pleasure as he comes, cock throbbing and spilling onto his stomach and all over his hand. Maybe later he'll remember that he hadn't dictated his actions to Hannibal, or that he'd been louder than he'd wanted to be, but for now he doesn't care. Instead his breathing is wrecked, his face is flushed, and the soft sounds of pleasure he lets out are entirely involuntary.

* * *

Hannibal hadn't lied when he said that his sadism is _mostly_ non-sexual. Hannibal doesn't need to be touched or, as Will would likely put it, to "get off." Whether it was murder or bedroom activities, he can enjoy the pain and distress of another without physical arousal and a climax having taken place for him. He certainly doesn't _need_ it... And yet as he listens to the myriad of beautiful sounds that Will makes, he can't help but wonder how Will might sound if Will were to touch _him_. It's a mild curiosity and it's hardly worth thinking on. After all, there's no real indication that Will _is_ interested in reciprocating anything. And while there may be giving and receiving with Natalie, Hannibal hardly sees _her_ as anything near an equal partner. Hannibal chalks the curiosity up to his enjoyment of observing Will and the desire to push him into new situations and see how he responds.

Hannibal is silent when Will's pleasure culminates finally into an orgasm. As he intently listens to the sounds that fall from Will's mouth, Hannibal is almost reverent, eyes closed. Will hasn't been narrating for a little while now so Hannibal is not surprised that that trend continues. Will is loud and unrestrained and the expressiveness has Hannibal more than satisfied. He relishes in the almost anguished sounding cries, in hearing Will's frantic breathing as he copes with the rush. Hannibal's own hand is gripping the cellphone a little tighter than needed. "Good, Will. Exactly as I asked," Hannibal praises and keeps his voice as even as he can manage.

All in all, Hannibal believes their next session should prove interesting.


End file.
